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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


POETS  OF  OHIO 


Phoebe  Gary 

William  H.  Lytle 
Sarah  M.  B.  Piatt 


William  Davis  Gallagher 

Coates  Kinney 
William  Henry  Venable 
William  Dean   Howells 


Alice  Gary 
John  James  Piatt 

Edith  M.  Thomas 


POETS  OF  OHIO 


SELECTIONS  REPRESENTING  THE  POETICAL  WORK 

OF  OHIO  AUTHORS  FROM  THE  PIONEER 

PERIOD  TO  THE  PRESENT  DAY,  WITH 

BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCHES 

AND  NOTES 


EDITED  BY 

EMERSON  VENABLE 


CINCINNATI 

THE  ROBERT  CLARKE  COMPANY 
MDCCCCIX 


Copyright,  1909,  by 

EMERSON  VENABLE 


571 


PREFACE 

THIS  volume  was  compiled  for  the  purpose  of  supplying 
libraries,  reading  circles,  public  schools,  and  colleges,  with 
a  convenient  anthology  fairly  representing  the  rich  and 
diversified  poetical  achievement  of  Ohio  authors,  from  the  pio 
neer  period  to  the  present  day. 

The  student  wishing  further  to  extend  his  knowledge  of 
the  poetry  of  the  Buckeye  State,  is  referred  to  the  bibliographic 
lists  given  in  the  Appendix. 

To  Dr.  F.  B.  Dyer,  Superintendent  of  Public  Schools  of 
Cincinnati,  at  whose  suggestion  the  volume  was  prepared  with 
special  reference  to  educational  demands,  the  editor  gratefully 
records  his  obligation  for  many  helpful  criticisms,  and  for  encour 
agement  received  from  commendatory  words  endorsing  the  book 
as  a  desirable  repository  of  select  verse  comprising  abundant  and 
varied  material  for  reading  supplementary  to  the  prevailing  inter 
mediate  and  high-school  courses  in  American  literature. 

Special  acknowledgment  is  rendered  to  Mr.  I.  Benjamin, 
for  his  courtesy  in  furnishing  original  photographs  of  several 
of  the  writers  whose  portraits  appear  in  the  frontispiece;  to  the 
Historical  and  Philosophical  Society  of  Ohio,  which  loaned  for 
reproduction  the  rare  silver-print  cabinet-picture  of  Phoebe 
Cary;  and  to  Mr.  Anthony  Bill,  (with  Mr.  Benjamin,)  for  pre 
paring  the  group  of  likenesses  from  which  the  half-tone  was 
made. 

Thanks  are  due  to  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Co.  for  the  privi 
lege  of  reprinting  poems  by  W.  D.  Howells,  Edith  M.  Thomas, 
and  Alice  and  Phoebe  Cary;  to  Harper  &  Brothers,  for  poems 
by  W.  D.  Howells  and  Alice  Archer  S.  James ;  to  Rand,  McNally 
&  Co.,  for  poems  by  Coates  Kinney;  to  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  for 
poems  by  W.  H.  Venable ;  to  The  Century  Co.,  for  poems  by  Alice 


PREFACE 

Archer  S.  James,  John  Bennett,  Henry  H.  Bennett,  and  Alice 
Williams  Brotherton ;  to  the  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co.,  for  poems  by 
Thomas  Buchanan  Read;  to  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  for  poems  by 
Sarah  C.  Woolsey;  to  The  Robert  Clarke  Co.,  for  poems  by 
William  D.  Gallagher  and  William  H.  Lytle;  to  Richard  G. 
Badger,  for  poems  by  Edith  M.  Thomas  and  W.  H.  Venable; 
to  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  for  poems  by  Alice  W.  Brotherton;  to 
the  Youth's  Companion,  for  a  poem  by  H.  H.  Bennett;  and  to 
Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  for  poems  by  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar. 

In  the  preparation  of  this  anthology  some  two  hundred 
volumes,  comprising  the  published  verse  of  more  than  one  hun 
dred  Ohio  writers,  were  examined.  The  editor  had  frequent 
occasion  to  consult  the  pages  of  various  standard  works  of 
reference,  among  which  he  would  specially  mention:  Cogge- 
shall's  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West  (1860)  ;  Stedman's  An 
American  Anthology  (1901)  ;  Venable's  Beginnings  of  Literary 
Culture  in  the  Ohio  Valley  (1891)  ;  Venable's  Literary  Men  and 
Women  of  Ohio  (1904)  ;  Gallagher's  Selections  from  the  Poeti 
cal  Literature  of  the  West  (1841)  ;  Thomson's  Bibliography  of 
Ohio  (1880)  ;  Biographical  Cyclopaedia  of  Ohio  (1887)  ;  Adams's 
A  Dictionary  of  American  Authors  (1902)  ;  and  Who's  Who  in 
America  (1908-9). 

Thanks  are  returned  to  Mr.  N.  D.  C.  Hodges,  of  the  Public 
Library  of  Cincinnati ;  to  Mr.  C.  B.  Galbreath,  of  the  Ohio  State 
Library,  Columbus;  to  Mr.  W.  H.  Brett,  of  the  Public  Library 
of  Cleveland;  and  to  Mr.  Herbert  Putnam,  of  the  Library  of 
Congress,  Washington,  D.  C., —  for  the  loan  of  numerous  publi 
cations  now  out  of  print.  E.  V. 

Cincinnati,  Ohio, 
September,  7909. 


CONTENTS 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER  (1808-1894)  PAGE 

Biographical   Sketch    15 

Extracts  from  "Miami  Woods :" 

The  Primeval  Forest 17 

Glimpses  of  June 18 

Autumn    19 

Indian   Summer    19 

The   Coming  of  Winter 22 

In  Memoriam    22 

The  Song  of  the  Pioneers 26 

The   Spotted   Fawn 29 

"Ah !     Well-a-way !"    30 

May    31 

August    31 

Truth  and   Freedom 33 

Conservatism    33 

JULIA  A.  DUMONT  (1794-1857) 

Biographical   Sketch    34 

The   Future  Life 35 

EDWARD  A.  MCLAUGHLIN  (1793-?) 

Biographical   Sketch    37 

The   Seminole    38 

Extract  from  "The  Lovers  of  the  Deep :" 

"Poor  Have  I  Lived" 41 

HARVEY  D.  LITTLE  (1803-1833) 

Biographical    Sketch    ' 42 

On    Judah's    Hill '. 43 

OTWAY  CURRY   (1804-1855) 

Biographical    Sketch    44 

The   Lost    Pleiad 46 

The  Goings  Forth  of  God 47 

To  a   Midnight  Phantom 48 

Buckeye   Cabin    49 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

FREDERICK  WILLIAM  THOMAS  (1811-1866)  PAGE 

Biographical   Sketch    51 

Extracts  from  "The  Emigrant :" 

Daniel    Boone    52 

The    Indian    53 

'Tis  Said  that  Absence  Conquers  Love 54 

LEWIS  FOULKE  THOMAS    (1815-1868) 

Biographical   Sketch    56 

Love's    Argument    56 

CHARLES  A.  JONES   (1815-1851) 

Biographical    Sketch    58 

Tecumseh    59 

The   Old    Mound 61 

DANIEL  DECATUR  EMMETT   (1815-1904) 

Biographical   Sketch    63 

Dixie    64 

ALICE  GARY   (1820-1870) 

Biographical   Sketch    66 

Balder's  Wife    68 

Pictures  of  Memory 69 

Now,  and  Then 71 

Tricksey's    Ring    72 

The  Gray  Swan 77 

Idle    79 

Nobility     80 

An  Order  for  a  Picture 81 

"Thy  works,  O  Lord,  interpret  Thee" 82 

My  Dream  of   Dreams 82 

PHOEBE  CARY  (1824-1871) 

Biographical   Sketch    83 

Our  Homestead    84 

The  Only  Ornament 85 

True  Love    87 

Song    88 

Vain   Repentance    88 

A    Weary    Heart 88 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ   (1822-1872) 

Biographical   Sketch    90 

Sheridan's   Ride    91 

8 


CONTENTS 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ  (1822-1872)— Con.  PAGE 

Drifting 93 

The   Closing   Scene 96 

WILLIAM  JAMES   SPERRY    (1823-1856) 

Biographical    Sketch    99 

A  Lament  for  the  Ancient  People 100 

WILLIAM  PENN  BRANNAN   (1825-1866) 

Biographical   Sketch    102 

Extracts  from  "Saint  Mary's  Hospital :" 

"The  east  is  red  with  beacon-fires" 102 

"The  sunshine  flashes  down  the  walls" 103 

"And  where  is  he  that  died  today?" 103 

"I  will  not  bow  with  patient  knees" 104 

"I  envy  every  bird  that  flies" 105 

HELEN  LOUISA  BOSTWICK  BIRD  (1826-1907) 

Biographical   Sketch    106 

Drafted    107 

My   Mountain    109 

My   Island 109 

My  River   110 

My   Lake    Ill 

So  Many  Times Ill 

How  the  Gates  Came  Ajar 112 

The  Lost  Image 113 

The  Little   Coffin 114 

In  the  Fisher's  Hut 115 

Too  Fine  for  Mortal  Ear 116 

WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE  (1826-1863) 

Biographical   Sketch    117 

Antony  and  Cleopatra 119 

Popocatapetl    120 

Macdonald's    Drummer    122 

Brigand's    Song    124 

Anacreontic    126 

In  Camp    127 

"When  the  Long  Shadows" 128 

COATES  KINNEY  (1826-1904) 

Biographical   Sketch    129 

.     Extracts  from  "Mists  of  Fire:" 

Oneirode    134 

Antoneirode    137 

9 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

COATES  KINNEY  —  Con.  PAGE 

To  an  Old  Appletree 139 

Miscellaneous   Extracts    141 

Consummation    145 

"Did  I  Not  Realize?" 146 

Ships    Coming    In 146 

Child  Lost 148 

Egypt    149 

Rain  on  the  Roof 151 

FLORUS  BEARDSLEY  PLIMPTON   (1830-1886) 

Biographical   Sketch    153 

Summer    Days    156 

The  Reformer  157 

Pittsburg   159 

In   Remembrance    159 

Return 160 

Springtime    161 

Waiting   to    Die 161 

BENJAMIN   RUSSEL  HANBY    (1833-1867) 

Biographical   Sketch    163 

Darling   Nelly    Gray 163 

JOHN  JAMES  PIATT   (1835—) 

Biographical   Sketch    165 

King's    Tavern    169 

Honors  of  War 170 

Sonnet  —  in   1862    171 

The    Golden    Hand 172 

The    Morning    Street 173 

The   Open   Slave-Pen 175 

A  Lost  Kingdom  of  Gods 176 

Farther    177 

The  Book  of  Gold 177 

Sundown    178 

A  Voice  in  Ohio 178 

Taking  the   Night-Train 179 

Reading   the    Milestone 180 

The  Three  Work-Days 181 

Use    and    Beauty 181 

Torch-Light   in   Fall-Time 182 

10 


CONTENTS 

JOHN  JAMES  PIATT  —  Con.  PAGE 

At   Home    182 

The  Guerdon   182 

SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PIATT   (1836—) 

Biographical   Sketch    183 

Leaving  Love    185 

A  Doubt   186 

Transfigured    187 

The  Thought  of  Astyanax  before  lulus 188 

No  Help   189 

Calling  the  Dead 190 

A   Pique  at  Parting 191 

Caprice    at    Home 192 

The  House  below  the  Hill 194 

Sad  Wisdom  — Four  Years  Old 196 

To   be    Dead 196 

A  Look  into  the  Grave 197 

The  Highest  Mountain 197 

Life   and   Death 193 

"I  Want  It  Yesterday" 19S 

In   Doubt    199 

Say  the    Sweet   Words 199 

For   Another's    Sake 199 

Little    Christian's    Trouble 200 

My  Wedding  Ring 200 

To    —    201 

WILLIAM  HENRY  YEN  ABLE   (1836—) 

Biographical   Sketch    202 

My  Catbird :    a  Capriccio 205 

The  Founders  of  Ohio 207 

The  Teacher's   Dream 207 

National    Song    210 

An  Old  Spanish  Bugle 211 

Immortal  Birdsong   213 

Summer    Love    213 

Coff ea  Arabica    214 

A  Welcome  to  Boz 216 

The   Poet  of   Clovernook 218 

A    Gentle    Man 219 

Inviolate    220 

A  Diamond    220 

11 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE  —  Con.  PAGE 

From  "Floridian  Sonnets :" 

"The   Golden   Treasury" 221 

Milton    221 

Wordsworth    222 

Sursum    Corda    222 

Mutation    223 

To  Coates  Kinney  223 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS   (1837—) 

Biographical    Sketch    224 

The  Movers   225 

Forlorn    228 

In  Earliest  Spring 231 

Dead 232 

Society     233 

Respite     234 

DENTON  JAQUES  SNIDER  (1841—) 

Biographical   Sketch    235 

Extracts  from  "Delphic  Days:" 

Elpinike 236 

SARAH  CHAUNCEY  WOOLSEY  (1845-1905) 

Biographical    Sketch    242 

Gulf-Stream    242 

Good-bye    243 

Bereaved    245 

Ashes    246 

Thorns    247 

ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON 

Biographical    Sketch    249 

The  Blazing  Heart 250 

Rosenlicd    I    251 

Rosenlied    II    252 

The  Poison  Flask 252 

My  Enemy   254 

The   Living    Past 256 

A   Persian   Fable 257 

Campion     257 

The    Spinner 258 

Shakespeare    259 

Woman  and  Artist   259 

12 


CONTENTS 

EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS  (1854—)  PAGE 

Biographical   Sketch    261 

Dead  Low  Tide 262 

Thefts  of  the  Morning 263 

Wild    Honey    265 

Syrinx    266 

Avalon  —  Fair  Avalon 267 

At  Lethe's  Brink   268 

Vertumnus    270 

A    Rainbow    271 

Migration    271 

"Oft   Have  I  Wakened" 272 

THOMAS  EMMETT  MOORE  (1861—) 

Biographical    Sketch    273 

Soul    Song    274 

Light    275 

The  Palmer   275 

HENRY  HOLCOMB  BENNETT  (1863—) 

Biographical    Sketch    276 

The  Flag  Goes  By 277 

The  Redbird's  Matins    278 

JOHN  BENNETT   (1865—) 

Biographical    Sketch    280 

The  Merry   Springtime    281 

Song  of  the  Hunt 282 

Song  of  the  Dutch  Cannoneers 282 

To  the  Robin  That  Sings  at  My  Window 283 

The   Hills  of   Ross 284 

Obstinacy    285 

FRANCES  NEWTON  SYMMES   (1865—) 

Biographical   Sketch    286 

Heart    Stirrings    287 

Repression    287 

Listening  288 

Fate    288 

Revival    289 

Forebodings   289 

Afterwards    289 

Twilight     290 

Dawn   290 

13 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE   (1868—)  PAGE 

Biographical   Sketch    291 

The   Lion 292 

Evocation    296 

An    Old    Nest 297 

A  Respite    297 

In  Vain   298 

Higher  Mathematics   299 

Whence?    Whither?    299 

ALICE  ARCHER  SEW  ALL  JAMES   (1870—) 

Biographical   Sketch    300 

The  Passing  of  the  Wild 301 

Youth  303 

To  A  New-Born  Baby 304 

Say  Not  Farewell 307 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR   (1872-1906) 

Biographical   Sketch    309 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe   312 

Weltschmertz  313 

Angelina   314 

Little  Brown   Baby 315 

Parted    316 

Hymn     317 

OHIO  COMMEMORATION  ODES. 

Ohio  Centennial  Ode by  Coates  Kinney 321 

Cleveland  Centennial  Ode.  . .  .by  John  James  Piatt 326 

Cincinnati :    A  Civic  Ode. . .  .by  William  Henry  Venable 335 

APPENDIX  —  REFERENCE-LISTS,   BIBLIOGRAPHIC  AND   CRITICAL 345 


14 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER,  son  of  Bernard  and 
Abigail  (Davis)  Gallagher,  was  born  in  Philadelphia, 
Pa.,  August  21,  1808.  His  father,  an  Irish  refugee  and 
a  former  compatriot  of  Robert  Emmet,  died  in  the  year  1814, 
two  years  after  which  event  the  widowed  mother  and  her  four 
young  sons,  Edward,  John,  William,  and  Francis,  removed  to 
Cincinnati.  William  received  his  first  rudimentary  knowledge 
of  books  in  a  log  schoolhouse  near  Mount  Healthy,  Ohio,  and 
later  he  attended  for  a  time  the  Lancaster  Academy,  an  institu 
tion  which  in  1819  was  reorganized  and  chartered  as  the  Cin 
cinnati  College.  Young  Gallagher  learned  the  printer's  trade, 
working  successively  on  several  Cincinnati  newspapers,  and  while 
yet  in  his  nonage,  collaborating  with  his  brother  Francis,  he 
conducted  a  short-lived  sheet  called  the  Western  Minerva.  In 
1830  he  went  to  Xenia,  where  for  nine  months  he  edited  the 
Backwoodsman,  a  campaign  organ  favoring  Henry  Clay,  the 
Whig  candidate  for  President,  and  where,  in  the  summer  of 
1831,  he  married  Miss  Emma  Adamson,  of  Cincinnati.  Return 
ing  with  his  wife  to  the  Queen  City,  in  the  following  autumn, 
he  entered  upon  his  first  important  literary  undertaking,  the 
editorship  of  the  Cincinnati  Mirror  and  Ladies'  Parterre,  a 
family  journal  of  wide  influence.  In  1835  Mr.  Gallagher 
removed  to  Columbus,  where,  besides  writing  leading  editorials 
for  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  he  established  a  vigorous  monthly 
magazine,  the  Hesperian.  In  1839  he  was  invited  by  the  distin 
guished  journalist,  Charles  Hammond,  to  become  assistant  editor 
of  the  Cincinnati  Daily  Gazette,  a  position  which  he  accepted 
and  which  he  held  until  1840,  when,  upon  the  death  of  Hammond, 
he  was  chosen  editor-in-chief.  In  1850  he  was  appointed  private 
secretary  to  Thomas  Corwin,  after  whose  retirement  from  Fill- 

15 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

more's  Cabinet  he  went  to  Louisville,  where,  as  one  of  the  pro 
prietors  of  the  Daily  Courier,  he  championed  the  presidential 
candidacy  of  Corwin.  On  severing  his  relations  with  the  Courier 
in  1854,  he  withdrew  to  a  rural  estate  which  he  had  purchased 
near  Pewee  Valley,  where  the  family  thereafter  resided  for  thirty 
years. 

He  was  a  delegate  to  the  National  Convention  which  nomi 
nated  Abraham  Lincoln,  and  at  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War 
he  became  private  secretary  to  Salmon  P.  Chase.  He  was  later 
appointed,  by  Lincoln,  Special  Commercial  Agent  for  the  Upper 
Mississippi  Valley,  and  in  1863,  Surveyor  of  Customs  for 
Louisville. 

In  the  year  1867  Mr.  Gallagher  was  bereft  of  his  wife,  who 
died  of  heart-failure,  at  Fern  Rock  Cottage,  Pewee  Valley.  Of 
the  nine  children  she  bore  to  him,  two  are  yet  living,  Mrs.  Jane 
Cotton  and  Miss  Frances  Gallagher. 

The  venerable  poet  died  at  his  home  in  Louisville,  June  27, 
1894.  He  was  buried  in  Spring  Grove  Cemetery,  Cincinnati, 
beneath  the  shade  of  native  forest  trees,  within  a  few  paces  of 
the  spot  marked  by  the  monument  to  his  old  friend  Rufus  King. 

Preeminent  among  the  early  poets  of  Ohio,  Gallagher,  in 
his  day,  exerted  in  the  West  a  persistent  and  formative  influence 
comparable  to  that  exerted  in  a  wider  field  by  his  more  distin 
guished  New  England  contemporaries,  to  several  of  whom  he 
bears  a  certain  intellectual  and  moral  kinship.  His  rugged  and 
energetic  "Ballads  of  the  Border,"  no  less  than  his  spirited  songs 
of  freedom,  are  resonant  with  the  same  bold  and  manly  note  as 
that  which  rings  clear  in  the  stirring  verse  of  Whittier;  and  in 
his  calmer  and  more  exalted  moods  our  Western  pioneer  bard 
brings  to  the  temple  of  Nature  the  same  devout  and  unquestion 
ing  faith  as  that  which  finds  solemn  utterance  in  "Thanatopsis" 
and  "Forest  Hymn."  What  Bryant  did  for  the  ancient  woodlands 
of  the  East,  and  Longfellow  for  the  live-oak  and  cypress  groves 
of  Louisiana,  Gallagher,  in  the  stately  and  melodious  verse  of 
his  Western  pastoral,  "Miami  Woods,"  has  done  for  the  majestic 
primeval  forests  of  southern  Ohio. 

16 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

No  other  American  poet  brings  the  reader  into  more  vital 
contact  with  Nature, —  into  closer  communion  with  birds  and 
breezes,  hills,  streams,  trees,  and  flowers, —  than  does  the  author 
of  "Miami  Woods;"  and  no  other  American  writer  has  depicted 
with  a  more  delicate  and  absolute  realism, —  with  truer  eye  to 
color,  form,  and  motion, —  the  varying  aspects  of  the  changing 
year. 

MIAMI  WOODS 

(Extracts) 


"7  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley  green, 
Dingle  or  bushy  dell  of  this  wild  wood, 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side, 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighborhood." 

—  Milton. 

Sage  monitors  of  youth  are  wont  to  say 
The  eye  grows  early  dim  to  nature's  charms, 
And  commerce  with  the  world  soon  dulls  the  ear 
To  heavenliest  sounds.     It  may  be  so;  but  I, 
Whose  feet  were  on  the  hills  from  earliest  life, 
And  in  the  vales,  and  by  the  flashing  brooks, 
Have  not  so  found  it : —  deeper  in  my  heart, 
Deeper  and  deeper  year  by  year,  has  sunk 
The  love  of  nature,  in  my  close,  and  long, 
And  fond  companionship  with  woods  and  waves, 
With  birds  and  breezes,  with  the  starry  sky, 
The  mountain-height,  the  rocky  gorge,  the  slope 
Mantled  with  flow'rs,  and  the  far-reaching  plain 
That  mingles  with  the  heavens. 


THE  PRIMEVAL  FOREST  1 

Around  me  here  rise  up  majestic  trees 
That  centuries  have  nurtured :   graceful  elms, 
Which  interlock  their  limbs  among  the  clouds ; 


1  Topic-headings  here  employed  do  not,  of  course,  appear  in  the  original  text. 

17 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Dark-columned  walnuts,  from  whose  liberal  store 

The  nut-brown  Indian  maids  their  baskets  fill'd 

Ere  the  first  pilgrims  knelt  on  Plymouth  Rock ; 

Gigantic  sycamores,  whose  mighty  arms 

Sheltered  the  Redman  in  his  wigwam  prone, 

What  time  the  Norsemen  roamed  our  chartless  seas  ; 

And  towering  oaks,  that  from  the  subject  plain 

Sprang  when  the  builders  of  the  tumuli 

First  disappeared,  and  to  the  conquering  hordes 

Left  these,  the  dim  traditions  of  their  race 

That  rise  around,  in  many  a  form  of  earth 

Tracing  the  plain,  but  shrouded  in  the  gloom 

Of  dark,  impenetrable  shades,  that  fall 

From  the  far  centuries. 

GLIMPSES  OF  JUNE 

How  beautifully  glimmer  on  my  sight 
The  fresh  green  fields  afar !     How  grandly  rise 
The  groves  that  gloom  around  me !     What  a  hush 
Broods  o'er  this  dell !     And  how  yon  hillside  basks 
In  the  full  blaze  of  this  unspotted  day ! 

*     *     *     *     A  statlier  growth  is  now 
Giving  green  glory  to  the  forest-aisles, 
And  beauty  to  the  meadows.     Far  away 
The  elder-thicket,  robed  in  brightest  bloom, 
Is  shining  like  a  sunlit  cloud  at  rest ; 
Nearer,  the  briar-roses  load  the  air 
With  sweetness ;  and  where  yon  half -hidden  fence 
And  toppling  cabin  mark  the  Pioneer's 
First  habitation  in  the  wilderness, 
The  gay  bignonia  to  the  ridge-pole  climbs, 
The  yellow  willow  spreads  its  generous  shade 
Around  the  cool  spring's  margin,  and  the  old 
And  bent  catalpa  waves  its  fan-like  leaves 
And  lifts  its  milk-white  blossoms.     Beautiful ! 

18 


AUTUMN 

The  autumn  time  is  with  us  ! —  Its  approach 
Was  heralded,  not  many  days  ago, 
By  hazy  skies  that  veiled  the  brazen  sun, 
And  sea-like  murmurs  from  the  rustling  corn, 
And  low-voiced  brooks  that  wandered  drowsily 
By  pendent  clusters  of  empurpling  grapes 
Swinging  upon  the  vine.     And  now,  'tis  here ! 
And  what  a  change  hath  pass'd  upon  the  face 
Of  nature,  where  the  waving  forest  spreads, 
Then  robed  in  deepest  green !     All  through  the  night 
The  subtle  frost  has  plied  its  magic  art ; 
And  in  the  day  the  golden  sun  hath  wrought 
True  wonders ;  and  the  winds  of  morn  and  even 
Have  touch'd  with  magic  breath  the  changing  leaves. 
And  now,  as  wanders  the  dilating  eye 
Athwart  the  varied  landscape,  circling  far, 
What  gorgeousness,  what  blazonry,  what  pomp 
Of  colors,  bursts  upon  the  ravished  sight ! 
Here,  where  the  poplar  rears  its  yellow  crest, 
A  golden  glory ;  yonder,  where  the  oak 
Stands  monarch  of  the  forest,  and  the  ash 
Is  girt  with  flame-like  parasite,  and  broad 
The  dogwood  spreads  beneath,  and,  fringing  all, 
The  sumac  blushes  to  the  ground,  a  flood 
Of  deepest  crimson ;  and  afar,  where  looms 
The  gnarled  gum,  a  cloud  of  bloodiest  red. 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

—  The  weary  gales 

Come  sighing  from  the  meadows  up  the  slope, 
And  die  in  plaintive  murmurs  :  in  the  elm 
The  jay  screams  hoarsely,  and  the  squirrel  barks 
Where  the  old  oak  stands  naked :   from  the  leaves, 
That  rustle  to  my  tread,  an  odor  comes 

19 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

As  of  mortality.     It  is  the  sad, 

Sweet  period  of  the  year  our  calends  call 

The  "Indian  Summer."     Beautifully  pass 

The  seasons  into  this.     The  harvest  done. 

The  summer  days  round  slowly  with  a  hush 

Into  the  quiet  of  the  August  noons. 

Fields  then  lie  bare ;  the  skies  grow  milky-blue ; 

The  streams  run  lazily ;  the  tiniest  child 

Can  jump  the  brooks,  or  wade  them  dry  at  knee ; 

One  far  retired  in  this  wide  Wood,  can  hear 

Its  deep  heart  throb,  so  still  is  every  thing : 

Out  o'er  the  meadows,  where  from  earliest  morn 

The  grazing  herds  have  fed,  they  quit  the  dry, 

Hot  grasses,  and  seek  out  the  shadiest  pools, 

Where,  plunging  belly-deep,  they  thus  await 

The  cooler  eve's  approach  so  quietly, 

They  look  like  statues  from  red  granite  hewn, 

Or  cast  in  bronze,  or  cut  in  ivory ; 

The  restless  sheep  are  scattered,  each  with  nose 

Thrust  in  protecting  grasses  ;  by  the  bars, 

Beneath  the  walnut  shade,  the  horses  doze 

The  mid-day  hours  away ;  around  the  fields, 

The  groves  are  silent ;  dotting  here  and  there 

The  faded  landscape,  like  gray  clouds  at  rest, 

The  old  farm-houses  lie ;  the  lolling  dog, 

That  ever  claims  the  shadow  of  the  porch, 

Frets  the  hot  noon  through ;  all  is  still  beside. 

The  quivering  flame  of  August  noons,  at  length, 
Burns  out ;  and  with  September's  equinox 
The  earth  grows  cooler,  and  the  quicken'd  airs 
More  freshly  touch  the  cheek:  but  summer's  breath 
Yet  lingers,  till  the  still  October  comes 
With  frosty  nights,  and  slumberous,  sunny  days : 
Then  falls  the  leaf ;  then  fades  along  the  fence 
The  golden-rod ;  then  turns  the  aster  pale ; 

20 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

Then  fly  the  song-birds,  by  the  robin  led, 

Whose  voices  through  the  summer  months  have  fill'd 

The  woods  with  music,  far  to  southern  haunts, 

In  orange  thickets  by  Suwanee's  shore, 

And  Mississippi's  broad  magnolia  groves. 

A  sweet,  voluptuous  languor  fills  the  air : 
The  sun  is  shorn  of  his  bright  beams,  and  looks 
Redly  and  dimly  down  upon  the  earth : 
The  moon  glows  like  a  buckler,  as  she  mounts 
In  quiet  from  the  misty  depths,  which  now 
No  marked  horizon  separates  from  the  dome 
That  spreads  above :   the  starry  hosts  are  lost, 
All  but  the  larger  lights,  which  dimly  walk 
The  heavens  alone.     *     *     *     *     The  warm 
And  wanton  airs  that  through  the  slumberous  day 
Steal  gently  up  from  southern  climes,  caress 
The  willing  cheek,  and  fold  the  languid  frame 
In  long  embraces,  and  on  couches  spread 
In  sunny  spots  of  silence,  thickly  strewn 
With  sweetest  smelling  leaves,  lie  down  with  it 
In  panting  ecstacies  of  soft  delights. 

Now  all  the  woodlands  round,  and  these  fair  vales, 
And  the  broad  plains  that  from  their  borders  stretch 
Away  to  the  blue  Unica,  and  run 
Along  the  Ozark  range,  and  far  beyond 
Find  the  still  groves  that  shut  Itasca  in, 
But,  more  than  all,  these  old  Miami  Woods, 
Are  robed  in  golden  exhalations,  dim 
As  half-remembered  dreams,  and  beautiful 
As  aught  of  Valambrosa,  or  the  plains 
Of  Arcady,  by  fabling  poets  sung. 
The  night  is  fill'd  with  murmurs,  and  the  day 
Distils  a  subtle  atmosphere,  that  lulls 

21 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

The  senses  to  a  half  repose,  and  hangs 

A  rosy  twilight  over  nature,  like 

The  night  of  Norway  summers,  when  the  sun 

Skims  the  horizon  through  the  tedious  months. 

THE  COMING  OF  WINTER 

—  Now,  from  the  stormy  Huron's  broad  expanse, 
From  Mackinaw  and  from  the  Michigan, 
Whose  billows  beat  upon  the  sounding  shores 
And  lash  the  surging  pines,  come  sweeping  down 
Ice-making  blasts,  and  raging  sheets  of  snow : 
The  heavens  grow  darker  daily ;  bleakest  winds 
Shriek  through  the  naked  woods ;  the  robber  owl 
Hoots  from  his  rocking  citadel  all  night ; 
And  all  the  day  unhoused  cattle  stand 
Shivering  and  pinch'd.     By  many  a  potent  sign 
The  dark  and  dreary  days  of  winter  thus 
Inaugurate  their  king.     A  summer  bird, 
I  fly  before  his  breath. —  Loved  haunts,  farewell ! 

IN  MEMORIAM 

"A  solitary  sorrow,  antheming 
A  lonely  grief."     _Keats 

I  see  her  now,  through  shadows  and  through  tears, 

In  all  her  beauty  wandering  by  my  side,1 

And  hear  her  voice,  with  snatches  of  old  song, 

Swell  up,  and  die  away,  and  wake  again. 

—  Vain  apparition !  memories  vainer  still ! 

Ye  make  me  feel  how  much  alone  I  am, 

More  than  I  felt  before :  ye  bend  the  bow, 

And  barb  the  arrows  that  transfix  my  heart. 


'The  reference  in  these  beautiful  and  tender  lines  is  to  the  poet's  daughter  Mary,  who 
died  in  girlhood. 

22 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

Oh,  from  this  scene  the  bloom  hath  faded  now ; 
And  that  which  was  the  soul  of  it  to  me, 
The  glory  and  the  grace,  sits  far  away, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  sorrow  big 
With  all  that  can  affright,  or  overwhelm. 


.     .     .     My  heart  would  break  —  my  stricken 

heart  would  break, 

Could  I  not  pour  upon  the  murmuring  winds, 
When  thus  it  swells,  the  burden  of  its  woe, 
In  words  that  soothe,  how  sad  soe'er  they  be. 

1 

Sweet  bird  that,  deep  in  beechen  shades  embower'd, 
Sittest  and  pour'st  the  sorrow  of  thy  heart, 

Till  all  the  woods  around 

Throb  as  in  heavy  grief  — 

Mourn  now  with  me :  in  deepest  shades  of  sorrow 
Sits  my  lone  heart,  and  pours  its  plaint  of  woe, 

Till  in  sad  unison 

Throbs  every  heart  around. 

2 

Sweet  brook,  that  over  shining  pebbles  glidest 
In  quiet,  with  a  low  and  plaintive  moan, 

Made  to  the  listening  woods 

And  to  the  leaning  flowers  — 
Mourn  now  with  me :  like  thine  my  life  in  quiet 
Glides  on  and  on,  with  songs  of  flowers  and  woods ; 

Nor  asks  a  gayer  scene, 

Or  other  auditors. 

3 

Sweet  summer  wind,  that,  high  among  the  branches 
Of  elm,  and  poplar,  and  of  towering  oak, 

Sighest  the  morning  out, 

Sighest  the  evening  in  — 

23 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Mourn  now  with  me :  in  and  from  early  boyhood, 
I've  loved  with  you  these  lone  and  sinless  haunts, 
Nor  asked  to  pour  my  song 
Where  the  proud  world  might  hear. 

4 

Sweet  bird,  sweet  brook,  sweet  summer  wind,  oh  listen ! 
Come  to  me  from  the  throbbing  beechen  shade, 

From  moaning  hollows  come, 

And  from  the  sighing  trees  — 

Mourn  now  with  me :  mourn  for  the  dear  one  absent, 
Who  loved  you  with  a  love  as  strong  as  mine : 

Mourn  for  the  mind's  eclipse  — 

Unutterable  woe  ! 


I  had  a  little  sprite  whose  name  was  Hope  — 
It  sang  glad  songs  into  my  eager  ear ; 
But  when  most  loved  its  notes  died  all  away, 
And  now  its  songs  are  still'd  forevermore  — 
Forevermore. 

I  heard  a  voice,  born  of  my  human  love, 
Speak  to  my  human  weakness  words  of  joy; 
Each  was  as  sweet  as  sounds  of  dulcimers, 
But  all  are  silent  now  forevermore  — 
Forevermore. 

I  held  within  my  own  a  little  hand, 
White  as  the  moon,  and  it  became  as  cold ; 
I  pressed  it  to  my  lips  in  agony ; 
'T  was  then  withdrawn  —  withdrawn  forevermore 
Forevermore. 

I've  worn  a  faded  lily  on  my  breast 
These  many  days,  these  many  weary  days; 
But  now,  by  unseen  fingers  touch'd,  it  falls, 
It  falls  away,  and  falls  forevermore  — 
Forevermore. 


24 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

Oh,  many  are  the  sweet  and  gentle  flowers, 
Caught  by  untimely  frosts,  that  droop  and  die 
Ere  half  their  beauty  has  disclosed  itself : 
The  dews  of  evening  and  the  stars  of  night 
Watch  o'er  and  weep  for  them,  and  kindly  airs 
Bear  them  to  earth,  and  lay  them  in  repose. 
And  many  are  the  pure  and  gentle  hearts, 
Untimely  touched  by  Death,  that  render  up 
The  hopes  and  promises  of  opening  life 
Without  a  murmur,  and  go  calmly  down, 
Along  the  way  of  shadows,  to  the  grave. 
And  such  an  one  has  just  been  laid  to  rest, 
Here,  where  the  hectic  leaf  of  autumn  falls 
And  strews  the  fresh-heap'd  earth,  and  where  the  pale 
And  perishing  blossoms  of  the  year  lie  low. 


Birds  of  the  greenwood  groves  and  sunny  meads ! 
Whose  voices  ever  fill'd  her  with  delight, 
Come  from  the  mirror  of  the  glassy  pool, 
Come  from  the  thicket's  edge  where  berries  hang, 
Come  from  each  airy  perch  and  favorite  haunt, 
And  from  your  sweet  and  ever-plaintive  throats 
Pour  forth,  in  soft  and  melancholy  staves, 
A  dirge  above  the  loved  and  early  lost ! 


Winds  of  the  spring-time !  ye  that  bear  the  sounds 
Of  far-off  murmurs  on  your  dewy  wings, 
And  steal  a  cadence  from  the  running  brook, 
That  rob  the  insect  of  its  hum,  and  catch 
The  harp's  last  note,  still  trembling  on  the  strings, 
Pause  here  a  little  while,  above  this  grave, 
And  in  the  tenderest  tones  of  all,  breathe  out 
A  requiem  for  the  loved  and  early  lost. 

25 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

3 

Light  breezes  of  the  summer !  wandering  far, 
Combine  in  one  the  many  sounds  of  grief 
Ye  gather  in  your  long  and  lonely  way, 
And  wed  with  them  all  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
Too  sorrowful  for  other  company, 
And  murmur  them  at  morn  and  eventide, 
And  in  the  hush  of  noon,  above  the  spot 
Where  sleeps  in  death  the  loved  and  early  lost ! 

4 

Soft,  sighing  gales  of  autumn  !  from  the  brown 
And  melancholy  meadows,  from  the  gloom 
Of  rocky  caverns,  from  the  plaining  woods, 
That  mourn  the  hectic  leaf  and  fading  flower, 
From  deepest  hollows  and  from  highest  hills, 
Bring  all  the  soft,  sweet  voices  that  are  born, 
And  pour  the  saddest  plaint  that  ever  yet 
Was  uttered,  for  the  loved  and  early  lost! 


1 

A  song  for  the  Early  Times  Out  West, 

And  our  green  old  forest-home, 
Whose  pleasant  memories  freshly  yet 

Across  the  bosom  come : 
A  song  for  the  free  and  gladsome  life 

In  those  early  days  we  led, 
With  a  teeming  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  a  smiling  Heav'n  o'erhead ! 
Oh,  the  waves  of  life  danced  merrily, 

And  had  a  joyous  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 


'Written  early  in  the  eighteen  forties. 

26 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

2 
The  hunt,  the  shot,  the  glorious  chase, 

The  captured  elk,  or  deer; 
The  camp,  the  big  bright  fire,  and  then 

The  rich  and  wholesome  cheer : — 
The  sweet  sound  sleep  at  dead  of  night, 

By  our  camp-fires  blazing  high  — 
Unbroken  by  the  wolf's  long  howl, 

And  the  panther  springing  by. 
Oh,  merrily  pass'd  the  time,  despite 

Our  wily  Indian  foe, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 

3 
We  shunn'd  not  labor :  when  't  was  due 

We  wrought  with  right  good  will ; 
And  for  the  homes  we  won  for  them, 

Our  children  bless  us  still. 
We  lived  not  hermit  lives,  but  oft 

In  social  converse  met; 
And  fires  of  love  were  kindled  then, 

That  burn  on  warmly  yet. 
Oh,  pleasantly  the  stream  of  life 

Pursued  its  constant  flow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 

4 
We  felt  that  we  were  fellow  men ; 

We  felt  we  were  a  band 
Sustain'd  here  in  the  wilderness 

By  Heaven's  upholding  hand. 
And  when  the  solemn  Sabbath  came, 

Assembling  in  the  wood, 
We  lifted  up  our  hearts  in  prayer 

To  God  the  only  Good. 

27 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Our  temples  then  were  earth  and  sky ; 

None  others  did  we  know, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 

5 
Our  forest-life  was  rough  and  rude, 

And  dangers  closed  us  round; 
But  here,  amid  the  green  old  trees, 

Freedom  was  sought  and  found. 
Oft  through  our  dwellings  wintry  blasts 

Would  rush,  with  shriek  and  moan ; 
We  cared  not  —  though  they  were  but  frail, 

We  felt  they  were  our  own ! 
Oh,  free  and  manly  lives  we  led, 

Mid  verdure,  or  mid  snow, 
In  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago ! 

6 
But  now  our  course  of  life  is  short; 

And  as,  from  day  to  day, 
We're  walking  on  with  weakening  step, 

And  halting  by  the  way, 
Another  Land  more  bright  than  this, 

To  our  dim  sight  appears, 
And  on  our  way  to  it  we  all 

Are  moving  with  the  years. 
Yet  while  we  linger,  we  'may  still 

Our  backward  glances  throw, 
To  the  days  when  we  were  Pioneers, 

Fifty  years  ago! 


28 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

THE   SPOTTED    FAWN1 

On  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge 

The  Red  Chief's  wigwam  stood, 
When  first  the  white  man's  rifle  rang 

Loud  through  the  echoing  wood, 
The  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife 

Together  lay  at  rest; 
For  peace  was  in  the  forest  shades, 

And  in  the  red  man's  breast. 

Oh,  the   Spotted  Fawn! 

Oh,  the   Spotted   Fawn! 
The  light  and  life  of  the  forest  shades 
With  the  Red  Chief's  child  is  gone. 

By  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge, 

The  Spotted  Fawn  had  birth, 
And  grew,  as  fair  an  Indian  girl 

As  ever  blest  the  earth. 
She  was  the  Red  Chief's  only  child, 

And  sought  by  many  a  brave; 
But  to  the  gallant  young  White  Cloud, 

Her  plighted  troth  she  gave. 

From  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge 

Her  bridal  song  arose  — 
None  dreaming,  in  that  festal  night, 

Of  near  encircling  foes  ; 
But  through  the  forest,  stealthily, 

The  white  men  came  in  wrath ; 
And  fiery  deaths  before  them  sped, 

And  blood  was  in  their  path. 


1  "The  Spotted  Fawn  was  the  beautiful  daughter  of  an  Indian  chief,  who  dwelt  in  the 
valley  of  the  Mahketewa,  who,  with  her  bridegroom,  White  Cloud,  was  slain  on  her 
bridal  night  by  the  cruel  white  man  who  in  time  of  peace  stole  in  upon  them  in  their 
slumbering  hours.  The  Mahketewa  is  the  Indian  name  for  a  stream  that  empties  into 
the  Ohio  at  Cincinnati,  commonly  called  Mill  Creek."— Howe's  Historical  Collections  of 
Ohio. 

29 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

On  Mahketewa's  flowery  marge, 

Next  morn,  no  strife  was  seen; 
But  a  wail  went  up,  where  the  young  Fawn's  blood 

And  White  Cloud's,  dyed  the  green; 
And  burial  in  their  own  rude  way, 

The  Indians  gave  them  there, 
While  a  low  and  sweet-toned  requiem 

The  brook  sang  and  the  air. 

Oh,  the   Spotted  Fawn! 

Oh,  the  Spotted  Fawn! 
The  light  and  life  of  the  forest  shades 
With  the  Red  Chief's  child  is  gone. 


"AH!  WELL- A- WAY!" 

Ah !  well-a-way ! 

The  cloud  will  come ;  but  after  comes  the  sun. 
Youth  lies  within  the  heart,  and  youth  and  sorrow 
Were  never  strangers  since  the  Eden-fall. 
Sorrow  descends  upon  the  flower  of  youth, 
As  snow  upon  the  crimson  April-bloom, 
Not  with  a  blighting  chill,  but  with  a  soft 
And  kindly  pressure,  that  to  youth  gives  strength, 
Warmth  to  the  crimson  blossom,  and  to  both 

The  panoply  that  shields 

From  after-coming  storms. 

Ah !    well-a-way ! 

Sin  was  begot  in  Hell,  and  sorrow  born 
In  Eden,  but  the  two  are  ever  twinn'd. 
Without  the  sin  the  sorrow  might  not  come: 
But  with  the  sin,  the  sorrow  is  a  bright, 
Redeeming  angel,  pointing  to  a  time 
When  sin  was  not ;  to  an  eternity 


30 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

When  sin  shall  be  no  more;  and  to  a  God 
Who  in  his  mercy  gave  the  sorrow  birth, 

That  thus  the  sin  might  die, 

And  man  again  be  pure. 


MAY 
(Extract) 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye, 

Merry,  ever-merry  May! 

Made  of  sun-gleams,  shade  and  showers, 

Bursting  buds,  and  breathing  flowers  ! 

Dripping-lock'd,  and  rosy-vested, 

Violet-slipper'd,  rainbow-crested ; 

Girdled  with  the  eglantine, 

Festoon'd  with  the  dewy  vine: 

Merry,  ever-merry  May! 

Would  that  thou  couldst  last  for  aye! 


AUGUST 

Dust  on  thy  mantle!    dust, 
Bright  summer,  on  thy  livery  of  green ! 
A  tarnish,  as  of  rust, 
Dims  thy  late-brilliant  sheen: 

And  thy  young  glories  —  leaf,  and  bud,  and  flower 
Change  cometh  over  them  with  every  hour. 

Thee  hath  the  August  sun 

Look'd  on  with  hot,  and  fierce,  and  brassy  face ; 
And  still  and  lazily  run, 
Scarce  whispering  in  their  pace, 
The  half -dried  rivulets,  that  lately  sent 
A  shout  of  gladness  up,  as  on  they  went. 


31 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Flame-like,  the  long  mid-day, 
With  not  so  much  of  sweet  air  as  hath  stirr'd 
The  down  upon  the  spray, 
Where  rests  the  panting  bird, 
Dozing  away  the  hot  and  tedious  noon, 
With  fitful  twitter,  sadly  out  of  tune. 

Seeds  in  the  sultry  air, 

And  gossamer  web-work  on  the  sleeping  trees ; 
E'en  the  tall  pines,  that  rear 
Their  plumes  to  catch  the  breeze, 
The  slightest  breeze  from  the  unfreshening  west, 
Partake  the  general  languor  and  deep  rest. 

'Happy  as  man  may  be, 

Stretch'd  on  his  back,  in  homely  bean-vine  bower, 
While  the  voluptuous  bee 
Robs  each  surrounding  flower, 
And  prattling  childhood  clambers  o'er  his  breast, 
The  husbandman  enjoys  his  noonday  rest. 

Against  the  hazy  sky, 
The  thin  and  fleecy  clouds  ufimoving  rest : 

Beneath  them  far,  yet  high 

In  the  dim,  distant  west, 
The  vulture,  scenting  thence  its  carrion- fare, 
Sails,  slowly  circling  in  the  sultry  air. 

Soberly,  in  the  shade, 
Repose  the  patient  cow,  the  toil-worn  ox ; 

Or  in  the  shoal  stream  wade, 

Shelter'd  by  jutting  rocks; 
The  fleecy  flock,  fly-scourged  and  restless,  rush 
Madly  from  fence  to  fence,  from  bush  to  bush. 

Tediously  pass  the  hours, 
And  vegetation  wilts,  with  blister'd  root  — 
And  droop  the  thirsting  flowers, 

32 


WILLIAM  DAVIS  GALLAGHER 

'Where  the  slant  sun-beams  shoot; 
But  of  each  tall  old  tree,  the  lengthening  line, 
Slow-creeping  eastward,  marks  the  day's  decline. 

Faster,  along  the  plain, 
Moves  now  the  shade,  and  on  the  meadow's  edge 

The  kine  are  forth  again, 

'Birds  flitter  in  the  hedge. 
Now  in  the  molten  west  sinks  the  hot  sun : 
Welcome,  mild  eve !  —  the  sultry  day  is  done. 


Be  thou  like  the  first  apostles  — 
Be  thou  like  heroic  Paul : 

If  a  free  thought  seek  expression, 
Speak  it  boldly ! —  speak  it  all ! 

Face  thine  enemies  —  accusers  ; 

Scorn  the  prison,  rack,  or  rod ! 
And,  if  thou  hast  Truth  to  utter, 

Speak !   and  leave  the  rest  to  God. 


CONSERVATISM 

(Extract) 

The  Owl,  he  fareth  well 

In  the  shadows  of  the  night; 

And  it  puzzleth  him  to  tell 
Why  the  Eagle  loves  the  light. 

And  he  hooteth  loud  and  long: — 
But  the  Eagle  greets  the  day, 

And,  on  pinions  bold  and  strong, 

Like  a  roused  Thought,  sweeps  away! 

33 


JULIA  L.  DUMONT 

JULIA  L.  DUMONT,  whom  her  biographe<-  in  William  T.  Cog- 
geshall's  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West,1  distinguishes 

as  "the  earliest  female  writer  in  the  West  whose  poems,  tales, 
and  sketches  have  been  preserved,"  was  the  daughter  of  Ebenezer 
and  Martha  D.  Covey,  who  in  1788  moved  from  Rhode  Island  to 
Ohio,  being  among  the  pioneers  of  Marietta,  the  first  Settlement 
in  the  Buckeye  State.  She  was  born  in  Washington  County, 
Ohio,  at  Waterford,  on  the  Muskingum  River,  in  October,  1794. 
While  she  was  still  in  her  infancy  her  parents  returned  to  Rhode 
Island,  where  her  father  died.  Soon  thereafter  the  widowed 
mother  removed  to  Greenfield,  Saratoga  County,  N.  Y.,  and  here 
Julia  received  her  elementary  education.  Later  she  attended  the 
Milton  Academy,  at  which  institution  she  manifested  unmistak 
able  literary  talent.  She  taught  school,  in  1811,  at  Greenfield, 
and,  in  1812,  at  Cambridge,  N.  Y.  In  August,  1812,  she  was 
married,  at  Greenfield,  to  John  Dumont,  with  whom  in  October 
of  the  following  year  she  returned  to  Ohio,  where  the  newly 
wedded  couple  lived  for  about  a  year  and  a  half.  In  March, 
1814,  Mrs.  Dumont  accompanied  her  husband  to  Vevay,  Indiana, 
in  which  picturesque  village  on  the  Ohio  River  she  resided  until 
her  death,  which  occurred  on  January  2,  1857. 

Mrs.  Dumont  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  several  Cincin 
nati  periodicals,  including  the  Cincinnati  Literary  Gazette,  the 
Cincinnati  Mirror,  the  Western  Literary  Journal,  and  the  Ladies' 
Repository.  No  volume  of  verse  from  her  pen  has  ever  been 
published,  although  a  collection  of  her  stories  and  other  prose 
writings  was  issued,  in  1856,  from  the  press  of  Appleton  & 
Company,  New  York,  under  the  title,  "Life  Sketches  from  Com- 


lThe  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West,  by  William  T.  Coggeshall.      Follett,  Foster  &  Co., 
Columbus,  1860;  New  York,  1864. 

34 


JULIA  A.  DUMONT 

mon  Paths."  It  is  a  fact  of  peculiar  interest  to  the  student  of 
Western  history  that  in  1835  she  had  gathered  materials  for  a 
Life  of  Tecumseh,  the  famous  Ohio  Indian  Chief. 

Sincerity  and  moral  earnestness  are  qualities  never  absent 
from  Mrs.  Dumont's  verse,  which,  though  too  often  lapsing  into 
mediocrity,  is  characterized  at  times  not  less  by  originality  of 
thought  than  by  imaginative  fervor  and  melodious  charm. 


THE  FUTURE  LIFE 
(Extract) 

Well,  let  me  meet  the  thought  —  it  hath  no  power 
To  daunt  the  soul  that  knows  its  heavenly  birth ; 

Pass,  pass  away !  brief  splendors  of  life's  hour, 
The  sights,  the  sounds,  the  gorgeous  hues  of  earth. 

All  sights,  all  sounds,  all  thoughts  and  dreams  of  time, 
Of  a  pure  joy  that  wake  the  passing  thrill, 

Are  yet  but  tokens  of  that  better  clime, 

Where  life  no  more  conflicts  with  change  or  chill. 

The  flush,  the  odor  of  the  summer  rose, 
The  breath  of  spring,  the  morning's  robe  of  light, 

The  whole  broad  beauty  o'er  the  earth  that  glows, 
Are  of  the  land  that  knows  no  touch  of  blight. 

The  melodies  that  fill  the  purple  skies, 

The  tones  of  love  that  thrill  life's  wide  domain, 

Are  all  but  notes  of  the  deep  harmonies 
Poured  round  the  Eternal,  in  triumphant  strain. 

And  I,  while  through  this  fading  form  of  dust 

There  burns  the  deathless  spark,  derived  from  Him, 

May  look  on  change  with  calm,  though  solemn  trust, 
Bearing  a  life  its  shadows  may  not  dim. 


35 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Oh  bless'd  assurance  of  exulting  faith ! 

Humble,  and  yet  victorious  in  its  might, 
Through  the  dark  mysteries  of  decay  and  death, 

Sustaining  on, —  a  pillar  still  of  light. 

The  life  immortal!   of  a  peace  intense, 

Holy,  unchanging,  save  to  brighter  day, 
How  fails  the  mind  in  upward  flight  immense, 

When,  to  conceive  it,  human  thoughts  essay! 

How  fade  the  glories  of  our  fairest  spheres, 
As  faith's  fixed  eye  pursues  that  heavenward  flight ! 

The  hopes  and  joys,  the  pain,  the  passionate  tears, 
How  shadowy  all  —  phantasmas  of  the  night ! 

What  I  am  now,  and  what  I  once  have  been, 
E'en  when  each  pulse  with  health's  full  bound  was  rife, 

Melt  as  a  dream  —  a  strange  and  struggling  scene, 
A  dim  and  fitful  consciousness  of  life. 

Pass,  pass  away!   things  of  a  fondness  vain, 
Fade  on,  frail  vestments  meant  but  for  decay; 

I  wait  the  robes  corruption  may  not  stain, 
The  bloom,  the  freshness  of  immortal  day. 


EDWARD  A.  MCLAUGHLIN 

EDWARD  A.  McLAUGHLIN,  author  of  a  discursive  poem 
in  four  Byronic  cantos,1  entitled  "The  Lovers  of  the 
Deep,"  inspired  by  the  adventures  of  a  sea-faring  life,  was 
born  at  North  Stamford,  Conn.,  January  9,  1798.  Being  dis 
charged  from  the  naval  service  on  account  of  impaired  health, 
in  1829,  he  became  a  wanderer,  a  new-world  troubadour,  and, 
under  the  impulse  of  an  imaginative  spirit,  he  wrote  with  remark 
able  energy  and  correctness  of  form,  considering  his  entire  lack 
of  school  education  and  of  literary  training.  His  volume,  much 
of  which  was  composed  in  Cincinnati,  was  published  in  that  city 
in  1841,  by  Edward  Lucas,  and  is  dedicated  to  Nicholas  Long- 
worth.  Among  its  miscellaneous  contents  are  poems  inscribed 
to  Stephen  S.  L'Hommedieu,  Peyton  S.  Symmes,  Bellamy  Storer, 
and  Jacob  Burnet.  We  have  not  been  able  to  ascertain  the  date 
or  the  place  of  McLaughlin's  death. 

In  the  autobiographical  preface  to  his  poems  the  author 
naively  relates :  "I  am  a  native  of  the  State  of  Connecticut,  and 
from  my  youth  have  been  rather  of  a  lively  and  roving  disposi 
tion.  At  an  early  age  I  absconded  from  home,  with  an  intention 
of  joining  the  army;  but  was  reclaimed,  and  shortly  afterward 
bound  an  apprentice  to  the  printing  business.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-one,  I  indulged  my  military  enthusiasm,  and  joined  the 
Missouri  expedition.  At  the  reduction  of  the  army  in  1821,  I 
received  my  discharge  at  Belle  Fontaine,  and,  descending  the 
Mississippi,  commenced  a  new  career  on  the  ocean.  I  liked  this 


lThe  author  of  "Childe  Harold"  noted  with  pride  his  growing  popularity  in  the  free 
dom-loving  West.  "These  are  the  first  tidings  that  have  sounded  like  fame  to  my  ears, — 
to  be  redde  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio,"  he  recorded  in  his  diary,  December  5,  1813. — No 
where  in  the  world,  perhaps,  was  Byron  hailed  with  more  enthusiasm  than  in  the  Ohio 
Valley,  where  he  had  many  admiring  readers,  and  where  the  influence  of  his  genius  is 
discernible  in  both  the  form  and  the  spirit  of  the  verse  of  several  of  the  pioneer  bards. 

37 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

element  better  than  the  land;  and  the  desire  of  seeing  foreign 
countries  induced  me  to  follow,  for  some  years,  the  life  of  a 
sailor.  Being  discharged  at  one  time  from  the  La  Plata  frigate, 
in  Carthagena,  Colombia,  I  was  forcibly  impressed  into  the  Patriot 
service.  After  many  vicissitudes  of  fortune,  I  was  enabled, 
through  the  generous  assistance  of  George  Watts,  British  Consul 
for  that  Republic,  to  return  home.  I  subsequently  entered  the 
American  Navy,  in  which  I  served  about  three  years  and  a  half. 
My  last  voyage  was  in  the  Hudson  frigate,  on  the  Brazil  station, 
from  which  ship  I  was  sent  home  an  invalid,  to  Washington, 
where  I  was  finally  discharged  from  the  service  in  1829. — I  have 
written  under  many  and  great  disadvantages.  With  a  mind  not 
characterized  by  any  great  natural  force;  stored  with  but  little 
reading,  and  that  mostly  of  a  local  and  superficial  character; 
without  books  of  any  kind  —  not  even  a  dictionary  —  I  was 
thrown  altogether  upon  my  own  slender  resources.  The  leading 
poem  was  begun  and  concluded  under  circumstances  never  above 
want:  though  a  regard  for  truth  constrains  me  to  acknowledge 
that  these  circumstances  were  not  unfrequently  the  consequence 
of  a  lack  of  moral  firmness  and  stability  on  my  own  part  —  to 
say  the  least  of  it  —  induced  by  the  sudden  and  unlooked-for 
overthrow  of  cherished  hopes  and  desires." 


THE  SEMINOLE 

Inscribed  to  Stephen  S.  L'Hommedieu,  Esq. 
(Extract) 

Muse  of  the  wild,  unlettered  birth  of  Time, 
In  native  grace  and  purity  arrayed ; 
Simple,  yet  powerful ;   artless,  yet  sublime  — 
Whose  dwelling  is  the  wilderness  of  shade, 
Or  deep  romantic  glen  —  or  vale  embayed 
Between  the  green-bound  hills,  where  Nature  smiles 
In  her  prolific  joy,  and  sits  displayed 
The  blooming  Queen  of  continents  and  isles : 
Low  lies  thy  freeborn  Son  —  victim  of  treacherous  wiles. 

38 


EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN 

Inspire  the  heart,  and  guide  the  hand  of  him, 
Who  sings  the  requiem  of  the  Seminole ! 
Nerveless  his  arm  —  his  eagle  eye  is  dim, 
And  in  the  Land  of  Spirits  wakes  his  soul : 
There  mourns  the  tempest  he  could  not  control  — 
That,  like  the  whirlwind,  oaks  nor  rocks  withstand, 
Launched  from  the  Andes,  or  the  stormy  pole  — 
Hurled  ruin  on  his  tribe  —  scattered  his  band, 
And  drenched  in  their  best  blood  the  Indian  Hunters'  land ! 

Famine  and  war  pursue  the  hapless  race, 
The  unsheathed  sword  is  gory  with  their  blood  — 
In  dismal  swamps  they  seek  a  resting  place, 
And  waste  their  feeble  strength  against  the  flood ; 
Or,  driven  far  within  the  marshy  wood, 
Where  scattered  hammocks  heave  their  heads  in  sight, 
Like  oases  on  Sahara's  bosom  strewed; 
The  hunted  Warriors  rally  all  their  might, 
And,  side  by  side,  renew  the  stern  but  hopeless  fight. 

Shout !   Seminoles,  once  more  your  battle  cry, 
And  grapple,  throat  to  throat,  the  tyrant  foe ! 
Call  up  your  wrongs,  rouse  all  your  chivalry, 
And  deal  a  deadly  wound  with  every  blow! 
Remember  sires',  and  wives',  and  children's  woe  — 
Remember  with  your  blood  your  land  is  red, 
And  that  your  fathers'  ashes  sleep  below : 
Strike  for  revenge  —  palsy  their  souls  with  dread  — 
Hurl  them  all  down  to  earth,  and  pile  it  with  their  dead ! 

It  may  not  be  —  their  destiny  is  told  — 

The  Master  Spirit  of  his  tribe  is  gone ! 

Wrapt  in  earth's  bosom,  rigid,  wan,  and  cold, 

The  violated  Warrior  lies  alone, 

With  none  but  strangers  o'er  his  grave  to  moan : 

No  files  of  those  he  led  to  victory 

Surround  the  Chief  whom  Freedom  calls  her  own  — 

39 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Whose  barbed  shaft  was  winged  for  liberty  — 
Whose  warwhoop  rung  the  knell  of  pale-faced  tyranny. 

The  noble  Captive  bears  him  unsubdued, 
Albeit  with  manacles  his  limbs  they  bind : 
His  unquenched  spirit  towers  in  haughty  mood, 
And  fiercer  burns  as  feels  its  force  confined  — 
They  cannot  chain  the  freedom  of  the  mind, 
Degrade  him  as  they  may :   a  Roman's  part 
The  lofty  Chief  sustains,  and  bows  resigned: 
In  silence,  broods  o'er  his  deep  wrongs,  apart, 
Weeps  for  his  country's  woes,  and  sinks  —  a  broken  heart. 

0  Muse,  whom  I  invoke  within  the  deep 
Recesses  of  the  wood,  in  numbers  wild; 
Shall  retribution  —  shall  red  vengeance  sleep, 
When  cries  from  earth  the  blood  of  Nature's  child ; 
Whose  green  retreats  the  murderer  hath  defiled, 
And  poured  life's  purple  stream  in  every  grove? 
Thy  blooming  vales,  where  innocence  beguiled 
The  hours,  and  woke  the  melody  of  love  — 

Are  silent,  tenantless,  save  where  the  demons  rove. 

1  hear  thy  voice  in  tones  of  sad  despair, 

I  mark  thine  eye,  and  vanished  is  its  glow ; 
The  notes  of  sorrow  float  upon  the  air, 
The  bitter  tears  of  anguish  overflow: 
Hope  sleeps  in  death  on  arid  plains  below, 
Bleak  as  the  fields  that  bind  the  Arctic  wave: 
And  'mid  the  broken  arrow  and  the  bow, 
Bleach  there  the  bones  of  Chief  and  Warrior  brave, 
The  mist  their  winding  sheet  —  a  ruined  land  their  grave. 

Thy  harp,  unstrung,  hangs  on  the  cypress  tree, 

Mute  as  the  stilly  depths  of  solitude : 

No  ear  remains  to  list  the  minstrelsy, 

Save  the  gaunt  wolf's,  that  prowls  the  dreary  wood, 

Or  panther's,  scenting  o'er  the  fields  of  blood : — 

40 


EDWARD  A.  M'LAUGHLIN 

Its  wreath  of  flowers  has  faded  from  the  view, 
And  all  the  magic  of  its  strains  subdued : 
Thy  harp  dissolves  away  in  tears  of  dew, 
As  the  dirge-moaning  winds  the  listless  chords  sweep  through. 

Peace,  Warrior,  to  thy  shade ! —  thy  sun  did  set, 
Or  e'er  thy  morn  had  reached  the  zenith's  height; 
But  Glory  crowns  thee  with  her  coronet, 
And  Fame  inscribes  thy  name  on  tablets  bright: 
No  thirst  for  conquest  lured  thee  to  the  fight, — 
No  blood  of  innocence  lies  on  thy  soul : 
But,  battling  singly  for  thy  country's  right, 
Thou  fell  —  when  at  thy  back  the  tyrants  stole, 
Who  quailed  beneath  thy  glance — THE  MURDERED  SEMINOLE  ! 
CINCINNATI,  February,  1838. 

"POOR  HAVE   I   LIVED" 
(Extract  from  "The  Lovers  of  the  Deep") 

Poor  have  I  lived,  the  son  of  discontent, 
In  want  and  sorrow  —  better  scarce  can  die ; 
But  may  no  nabob  rear  a  monument 
To  insult  the  dead,  that,  living,  he  passed  by : 
Wrapt  in  my  humble  fortune,  let  me  lie 
Within  the  green-bound  wood,  without  a  stone 
To  mark  the  spot  where  sleeps  the  wanderer's  eye : 
There  would  I  rest  in  solitude,  unknown, 
While  the  sweet  bird  of  spring  chants  my  last  dirge  alone. 

Nature,  to  whom  my  earliest  song  I  gave, 
Her  verdant  carpet  o'er  my  couch  shall  spread, 
Deck  with  wild  flowers  the  sleeping  poet's  grave, 
And  her  green  canopy  wave  o'er  my  head : 
The  dewy  tear  shall  to  my  memory  shed, 
And  breathe  her  sighs  upon  the  zephyr's  wing, 
While  her  plumed  offspring,  to  the  forest  led, 
In  untaught  strains  my  requiem  shall  sing, 
And  answering  Echo  back  the  varied  music  fling. 

41 


HARVEY  D.  LITTLE 

HARVEY  D.  LITTLE  was  born  in  Weathersfield,  Conn., 
in  1803.  When  but  twelve  or  thirteen  years  old,  he  came 
with  his  parents  to  Franklin  County,  Ohio,  where  he 
spent  the  remainder  of  his  life,  residing  first  on  a  farm  and  after 
ward  in  the  city  of  Columbus.  Early  in  youth  he  learned  the 
printer's  trade,  and  later  he  became  connected  successively  with 
several  Ohio  newspapers,  as  editor  and  co-publisher.  He  studied 
law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  at  the  '  age  of  twenty-five. 
Domestic  considerations,  however,  induced  him  to  abandon  the 
practice  of  law  and  to  resume  his  former  vocation  as  an  editor; 
and  he  was  engaged  in  the  management  of  a  local  periodical,  the 
Eclectic  and  Medical  Botanist,  when  his  career  was  cut  short  by 
a  sudden  and  fatal  illness.  He  died  of  Asiatic  cholera,  in  Colum 
bus,  Ohio,  August  22,  1833,  leaving  behind  him  a  wife  and  one 
child. 

A  sketch  of  Mr.  Little's  life,  by  W.  D.  Gallagher,  and  several 
of  his  poems,  are  preserved  in  Coggeshall's  compilation  of  1860. 
To  quote  the  words  of  his  biographer:  "Mr.  Little  was  a  type 
of  a  class  of  young  men  who,  though  not  altogether  peculiar  to 
the  West,  have  marked  this  section  of  the  Union  more  distinctly 
than  any  other.  Harvard,  Yale,  West  Point,  and  similar  institu 
tions  in  the  Eastern  States,  have  severally  been  the  Alma  Mater 
of  men  who  have  risen  to  distinction  at  the  bar,  in  the  army,  in 
the  pulpit,  and  in  the  halls  of  legislation.  In  the  Western  States, 
however,  those  places  have  been,  and  now  are,  to  an  extent  which 
'makes  it  worthy  of  remark,  filled  by  men  who,  like  Mr.  Little, 
graduated  in  a  printing-office  instead  of  a  college."  Of  the 
author's  poetical  attainment  the  same  writer  observes:  "The 
tones  of  his  harp  were  like  the  breathing  of  the  'sweet  south 
west/  and  came  upon  the  heart  mildly  and  soothingly.  The 
melody  of  his  verse  was  perfect ;  its  imagery  rich ;  its  language 
choice ;  its  figures  striking  and  appropriate." 

42 


HARVEY  D.  LITTLE 

ON  JUDAH'S  HILL 

On  Judah's  hill  the  towering  palm 
Still  spreads  its  branches  to  the  sky, 

The  same,  through  years  of  storm  and  calm, 
As  erst  it  was  in  days  gone  by, 

When  Israel's  king  poured  forth  his  psalm 
In  strains  of  sacred  melody. 

And  Lebanon,  thy  forests  green 

Are  waving  in  the  lonely  wind, 
To  mark  the  solitary  scene, 

Where  wandering  Israel's  hopes  are  shrined 
But  the  famed  Temple's  ancient  sheen 

The  pilgrim  seeks,  in  vain,  to  find. 

And  Kedron's  brook,  and  Jordan's  tide, 
Roll  onward  to  the  sluggish  sea : 

But  where  is  Salem's  swollen  pride, 
Her  chariots,  and  her  chivalry, 

Her  Tyrian  robes  in  purple  dyed, 

Her  warlike  hosts,  who  scorned  to  flee? 

Gone!    all  are  gone!     In  sullen  mood 

The  cruel  Arab  wanders  there, 
In  search  of  human  spoils  and  blood, — 

The  victims  of  his  wily  snare : 
And  where  the  holy  prophets  stood 

The  wild  beasts  make  their  secret  lair. 


43 


OTWAY  CURRY 

OTWAY  CURRY,  the  eldest  son  of  James  Curry,  a  brave 
and  patriotic  officer  in  the  Revolutionary  army,  was 
born  March  26,  1804,  on  a  farm  which  has  since  given 
place  to  the  village  of  Greenfield,  Highland  County,  Ohio.  "He 
was  a  child  of  the  wilderness,"  writes  his  biographer,  Dr.  Edward 
Thomson,  " —  a  situation  not  unsuitable  to  awaken  imagination, 
to  cultivate  taste,  and  to  call  forth  the  love  of  nature  and  the 
spirit  of  poesy."  The  scant  and  irregular  instruction  which  the 
boy  received  in  the  back- woods  log  schoolhouse  was  both  antici 
pated  and  supplemented  by  careful  and  sympathetic  home  train 
ing.  We  are  told  that  he  "heard  his  father  relate  the  tale  of  the 
Revolution,  the  wrongs  of  the  colonists,  their  determined  rebel 
lion,  their  bloody  battles,  and  their  final  triumph ;"  and  that  he 
"heard  him  describe  the  characters  of  the  leading  statesmen 
and  warriors  of  that  period,  the  organization  of  the  State  and 
National  Governments,  the  causes,  and  actors,  and  consequences 
of  the  war  of  1812." — "Moreover,"  continues  the  narrative,  "the 
pious  mother  had  her  pleasant  legends  and  fairy  tales,  with  which 
she  kept  down  the  rising  sigh,  and  kept  open  the  leaden  eyelids 
of  the  little  ones  as  she  sat  plying  her  spinning-wheel,  and  wait 
ing  for  the  return  of  her  husband  from  the  mill,  when  the  driv 
ing  snow-storm  delayed  him  far  into  the  hours  of  the  night.  She 
seems,  indeed,  to  have  been  no  ordinary  woman.  She  was  accus 
tomed  to  relate  over  and  over,  at  her  fireside,  the  whole  story  of 
Paradise  Lost,  as  well  as  of  many  other  classic  poems,  so  that 
young  Otway  was  familiar  with  their  scenes  and  characters  long 
before  he  could  read.  She  would  often  beguile  the  weary  hours 
of  summer  nights  as  she  sat  in  the  cabin  doorway  with  her  young 
ones,  watching  for  the  return  of  the  older  from  the  perilous 
chase,  by  naming  the  constellations  as  they  came  up  to  the  hori 
zon,  and  explaining  the  ordinances  of  heaven." 

44 


OTWAY  CURRY 

Thrown  upon  his  own  resources  at  the  age  of  nineteen, 
Curry,  in  the  year  1823,  went  to  Lebanon,  Ohio,  where  he 
learned  the  carpenter's  trade,  at  which  he  afterwards  worked, 
first  in  Cincinnati,  then  in  Detroit,  and  later  in  Port  Gibson,  Miss. 
It  was  within  this  period  of  unsettled  employment  as  a  "journey 
man  carpenter"  that  he  contributed  to  the  press,  anonymously, 
his  first  successful  experiments  in  lyric  composition,  including 
the  once  widely  popular  song  of  faith  entitled  "Kingdom  Come." 
Returning  to  Cincinnati  in  1826,  he  formed  the  intimate  acquaint 
ance  of  William  D.  Gallagher,  by  whose  influence,  at  a  later 
period,  his  poetic  achievement  was  brought  conspicuously  to  the 
attention  of  the  reading  public.  On  December  17,  1828,  Mr. 
Curry  was  married,  in  Union  County,  to  Miss  Mary  Noteman; 
and  in  the  following  year  he  again  went  South,  and  spent  some 
months  in  Baton  Rouge.  Upon  his  return  to  Ohio  he  settled  in 
Union  County,  where  for  a  period  of  ten  years  he  devoted  him 
self  to  the  pursuits  of  farm-life,  without,  however,  wholly  relin 
quishing  his  literary  avocation.  In  1836  he  was  elected  a  mem 
ber  of  the  Ohio  Legislature,  to  which  body  he  was  re-elected  in 
1837,  by  unsolicited  suffrages.  After  completing  his  second  term 
of  office  as  legislator,  in  1838,  he  was  for  six  months  associated 
with  Mr.  Gallagher  as  one  of  the  editors  of  the  Hesperian,  a 
monthly  magazine  published  in  Columbus.  In  1839  he  removed 
to  Marysville,  where  he  commenced  the  study  of  law.  He  was 
again  elected  to  the  Legislature  in  1842,  and  in  the  following  year 
he  purchased  the  Greene  County  Torch-Light,  a  weekly  paper 
issued  in  Xenia,  Ohio,  to  which  town  he  removed  in  the  spring 
of  1843.  Disposing  of  his  interest  in  this  paper  in  1845,  he 
returned  to  Marysville,  and  there  engaged  in  the  practice  of  law. 

In  1850  Mr.  Curry  was  a  delegate  to  the  second  Ohio  Con 
stitutional  Convention,  which  met  at  Cincinnati,  and  in  January, 
1854,  he  was  President  of  the  Ohio  Editorial  Convention,  which 
also  was  held  in  the  Queen  City. 

The  poet  died  February  17,  1855,  at  Marysville,  Ohio. 

In  the  memoir  from  which  we  have  already  quoted  occurs  the 
following  description  of  Otway  Curry,  and  of  his  habits  as  a 

45 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

literary  artist :  "He  had  an  open  countenance,  a  broad  and  lofty 
brow,  a  noble  form,  tall  and  well  proportioned,  which  might  have 
borne  with  ease  the  armor  of  a  knight  of  the  middle  ages.  His 
spirit  was  that  of  Southern  chivalry  mingled  with  the  Puritan. 
He  was  a  man  of  fine  taste.  This  he  exhibited  in  his  dress, 
his  language,  his  reading, —  in  everything1.  ,  .  .  His  words, 
whether  written  or  spoken,  were  few  and  well  chosen.  This  is 
the  more  remarkable,  considering  that  his  early  education  was  so 
limited.  He  would  allow  no  thought  of  his  to  go  abroad  in  an 
unsuitable  garment,  however  protracted  might  be  the  process  of 
fitting  it.  When  he  wrote  for  the  press  his  first  drafts  were 
scanned,  laid  aside,  examined  again,  altered,  and  re-written,  some 
times  often,  before  they  were  published.  Every  word  was  scruti 
nized.  Hence,  his  poems  bear  criticism,  and  will  be  best  appre 
ciated  by  those  who  most  closely  examine  them." 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD 

Millions  of  ages  gone, 
Didst  thou  survive,  in  thy  enthroned  place, 
Amidst  the  assemblies  of  the  starry  race, 

Still  shining  on  —  and  on. 

And  even  in  earthly  time 
Thy  parting  beams  their  olden  radiance  wore, 
And  greeted,  from  the  dim  cerulean  shore, 

The  old  Chaldean  clime. 

Sages  and  poets,  strong 
To  rise  and  walk  the  waveless  firmament, 
Gladly  to  thee  their  richest  offerings  sent, 

Of  eloquence  and  song. 

But  thy  far-flowing  light, 
By  time's  mysterious  shadows  overcast, 
Strangely  and  dimly  faded  at  the  last, 

Into  a  nameless  night. 

46 


OTWAY  CURRY 

Along  the  expanse  serene, 
Of  clust'ry  arch  and  constellated  zone, 
Wfth  orbed  sands  of  tremulous  gold  o'erstrown, 

No  more  canst  thou  be  seen. 

Say  whither  wand'rest  thou? 
Do  unseen  heavens  thy  distant  path  illume? 
Or  press  the  shades  of  everlasting  gloom 

Darkly  upon  thee  now? 

Around  thee,  far  away, 
The  hazy  ranks  of  multitudinous  spheres, 
Perchance,  are  gathering  to  prolong  the  years 

Of  thy  unwilling  stay. 

Sadly  our  thoughts  rehearse 
The  story  of  thy  wild  and  wondrous  flight 
Thro'  the  deep  deserts  of  the  ancient  night 

And  far-off  universe. 

We  call  —  we  call  thee  back, 
And  suns  of  many  a  constellation  bright 
Shall  weave  the  waves  of  their  illuming  light 
O'er  thy  returning  track. 

THE  GOINGS  FORTH  OF  GOD 

(Extract) 

God  walketh  on  the  earth.     The  purling  rills 
And  mightier  streams  before  Him  glance  away, 
Rejoicing  in  His  presence.     On  the  plains, 
And  spangled  fields,  and  in  the  mazy  vales, 
The  living  throngs  of  earth  before  Him  fall 
With  thankful  hymns,  receiving  from  His  hand 
Immortal  life  and  gladness.     Clothed  upon 
With  burning  crowns  the  mountain-heralds  stand, 
Proclaiming  to  the  blossoming  wilderness 
The  brightness  of  His  coming,  and  the  power 
Of  Him  who  ever  liveth.  all  in  all ! 


47 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

God  walketh  on  the  ocean.     Brilliantly 
The  glassy  waters  mirror  back  His  smiles. 
The  surging  billows  and  the  gamboling  storms 
Come  crouching  to  His  feet.     The  hoary  deep 
And  the  green,  gorgeous  islands  offer  up 
The  tribute  of  their  treasures  —  pearls,  and  shells, 
And  crown-like  drapery  of  the  dashing  foam. 
And  solemnly  the  tesselated  halls, 
And  coral  domes  of  mansions  in  the  depths, 
And  gardens  of  the  golden-sanded  sea, 
Blend,  with  the  anthems  of  the  chiming  waves, 
Their  alleluias  unto  Him  who  rules 
The  invisible  armies  of  eternity. 

God  journey eth  in  the  sky.     From  sun  to  sun. 
From  star  to  star,  the  living  lightnings  flash; 
And  pealing  thunders  through  all  space  proclaim 
The  goings  forth  of  Him  whose  potent  arm 
Perpetuates  existence,  or  destroys. 


Pale,  melancholy  one, 

Why  art  thou  lingering  here, 
Memorial  of  dark  ages  gone, 

Herald  of  darkness  near? 
Thou  stand'st  immortal,  undenled  — 
•Even  thou,  the  unknown,  the  strange,  the  wild, 

Spell-word  of  mortal  fear. 

Thou  art  a  shadowy  form, 

A  dream-like  thing  of  air ; 
My  very  sighs  thy  robes  deform, 

So  frail,  so  passing  fair; 


48 


OTWAY  CURRY 

Thy  crown  is  of  the  fabled  gems, 
The  bright  ephemeral   diadems 
That  unseen  spirits  wear. 

Thou  hast  revealed  to  me 
The  lore  of  phantom  song, 

With  thy  wild,  fearful  melody, 
Chiming  the  whole  night  long 

Forebodings  of  untimely  doom, 

Of  sorrowing  years  and  dying  gloom, 
And  unrequited  wrong. 


BUCKEYE   CABIN1 

Oh,  where,  tell  me  where,  was  your  Buckeye  cabin 
Oh,  where,  tell  me  where,  was  your  Buckeye  cabin  made? 
'Twas  built  among  the  merry  boys  that  wield  the  plow  and  spade, 
Where  the  long  cabin  stands,  in  the  bonnie  Buckeye  shade. 

Oh,  what,  tell  me  what,  is  to  be  your  cabin's  fate  ? 
Oh,  what,  tell  me  what,  is  to  be  your  cabin's  fate? 
We'll  wheel  it  to  the  Capital,  and  place  it  there  elate, 
For  a  token  and  a  sign  of  the  bonnie  Buckeye  State ! 

Oh,  why,  tell  me  why,  does  your  Buckeye  cabin  go? 
Oh,  why,  tell  me  why,  does  your  Buckeye  cabin  go? 
It  goes  against  the  spoilsmen,  for  well  its  builders  know 
It  was  Harrison  that  fought  for  the  cabins  long  ago. 

Oh,  what,  tell  me  what,  then,  will  little  Martin  do? 
Oh,  what,  tell  me  what,  then,  will  little  Martin  do? 
He'll  "follow  in  the  footsteps"  of  Price  and  Swarthout  too, 
While  the  long  cabin  rings  again  with  old  Tippecanoe. 


1  This  campaign  song  was  written  for  the  memorable  Whig  convention  of  February 
22,  1840,  when  twenty  thousand  people  from  all  parts  of  the  State  met  at  Columbus,  Ohio, 
to  ratify  the  nomination  of  Harrison  and  Tyler.  "In  the  procession,"  says  Hon.  C.  B.  Gal- 
breath,  in  an  article  entitled  "Song  Writers  of  Ohio,"  "was  a  cabin  on  wheels,  from  Union 
County.  It  was  made  of  buckeye  logs,  and  in  it  was  a  band  of  singers  discoursing,  to  the 
tune  of  Highland  Laddie,  the  famous  Buckeye  song  written  by  the  poet  Otway  Curry." 
— See  Ohio  Arch,  and  Hist.  Quart.,  Jan.,  1905. 

49 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Oh,  who  fell  before  him  in  battle,  tell  me  who? 
Oh,  who  fell  before  him  in  battle,  tell  me  who? 
He  drove  the  savage  legions,  and  British  armies,  too, 
At  the  Rapids,  and  the  Thames,  and  old  Tippecanoe ! 

By  whom,  tell  me  whom,  will  the  battle  next  be  won? 
By  whom,  tell  me  whom,  will  the  battle  next  be  won? 
The  spoilsmen  and  leg  treasurers  will  soon  begin  to  run ! 
And  the  "Log  Cabin  Candidate"  will  march  to  Washington ! 


50 


FREDERICK  WILLIAM  THOMAS 

FREDERICK  WILLIAM  THOMAS,  a  native  of  South 
Carolina,  was  born  at  Charleston,  in  the  year  1811.  He 
came  of  literary  stock,  his  father,  E.  S.  Thomas, —  who 
died  in  1847, —  being  the  author  of  Reminiscences  of  the  Last 
Sixty-five  Years,  and  his  grand-uncle,  Isaiah  Thomas,  the  author 
of  a  History  of  Printing.  His  brother,  Lewis  Fou'lke  Thomas, 
was  a  poet  of  some  mark,  and  his  sister,  Martha  M.  Thomas, 
wrote  a  novel  entitled  "Life's  Lessons,"  published  by  Harper 
&  Brothers,  in  1855.  In  1829  Frederick  removed  with  his  father 
from  Baltimore  to  Cincinnati,  in  which  city  he  resided  for  the 
next  twelve  years,  devoting  himself  to  literary  pursuits  and, 
irregularly,  to  the  practice  of  law.  "In  1840,"  writes  his  biog 
rapher,  W.  T.  Coggeshall,  "Mr.  Thomas  'took  the  stump'  in 
Ohio  for  William  Henry  Harrison,  as  a  candidate  for  the  Pres 
idency,  and  won  friends  as  a  popular  orator;"  and  subsequently 
he  "lectured  extensively  with  much  success  on  'Eloquence,'  on 
'Early  Struggles  of  Eminent  Men,'  and  other  popular  topics." 
Being  appointed,  in  1841,  by  Thomas  Ewing,  then  Secretary  of  the 
United  States  Treasury,  to  select  a  library  for  that  department 
of  Government,  Mr.  Thomas  removed  to  Washington,  D.  C, 
where  he  remained  until  1850,  when  he  returned  to  Cincinnati. 
Here  for  a  brief  period  he  occupied  a  pulpit  in  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church.  After  several  years  of  residence  in  the 
Queen  City  he  accepted  a  professorship  in  Rhetoric  and  English 
Literature,  to  which  he  was  called  by  the  Alabama  University; 
but,  having  determined  to  resume  the  practice  of  law,  he 
resigned  his  collegiate  chair,  and,  in  1858,  moved  to  Cambridge, 
Maryland,  where  he  settled  as  an  attorney.  Two  years  later, 
however,  he  was  induced  again  to  engage  in  journalism,  and  in 
the  spring  of  1860  he  became  literary  editor  of  the  Richmond 

51 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

(Virginia)  Enquirer.  His  death  occurred  in  Washington,  D.  C., 
September  30,  1866.  After  the  lapse  of  some  years  his  remains 
were  brought  to  Cincinnati  by  his  brother,  Calvin  W.  Thomas, 
and  placed  beside  those  of  his  parents,  in  Spring  Grove  Cemetery. 
Frederick  W.  Thomas  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of 
verse:  The  Beechen  Tree,  a  Tale  in  Rhyme,  published  in  1844 
by  Harper  &  Brothers,  and  The  Emigrant,  or  Reflections  While 
Descending  the  Ohio,  first  published  in  Cincinnati  in  1833,  by 
Alexander  Flash,  and  re-issued  in  that  city  by  Josiah  Drake,  in 
1872.  In  a  critical  estimate  of  Mr.  Thomas's  work,  Rufus  W. 
Griswold,  in  his  volume,  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  America 
(Phila.,  1855),  wrote:  "He  has  a  nice  discrimination  of  the 
peculiarities  of  character  which  give  light  and  shade  to  the  sur 
face  of  society,  and  a  hearty  relish  for  that  peculiar  humor 
which  abounds  in  that  portion  of  our  country  which  undoubtedly 
enibraces  most  that  is  original  and  striking  in  manners  and  unre 
strained  in  conduct.  He  must  rank  with  the  first  illustrators 
of  manners  in  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi."  The  author's 
most  ambitious  poem,  "The  Emigrant,"  contains  many  vigorous 
stanzas  of  realistic  description,  which  are  of  historical  interest 
as  picturing  certain  general  aspects  of  primitive  life  in  the  West 
ern  wilderness. 


Here  once  Boone  trod  —  the  hardy  Pioneer  — 
The  only  white  man  in  the  wilderness : 
Oh !  how  he  loved,  alone,  to  hunt  the  deer, 
Alone  at  eve,  his  simple  meal  to  dress; 
No  mark  upon  the  tree,  nor  print,  nor  track, 
To  lead  him  forward,  or  to  guide  him  back : 
He  roved  the  forest,  king  by  main  and  might, 
And  looked  up  to  the  sky  and  shaped  his  course  aright. 

52 


FREDERICK    WILLIAM   THOMAS 

That  mountain,  there,  that  lifts  its  bald,  high  head 
Above  the  forest,  was,  perchance,  his  throne; 
There  has  he  stood  and  marked  the  woods  outspread, 
Like  a  great  kingdom,  that  was  all  his  own ; 
In  hunting-shirt  and  moccasins  arrayed, 
With  bear-skin  cap,  and  pouch,  and  needful  blade, 
How  carelessly  he  lean'd  upon  his  gun! 
That  scepter  of  the  wild,  that  had  so  often  won. 

THE  INDIAN 

With   front  erect,  up-looking,  dignified  — 
Behold  high  Hecla  in  eternal  snows ! 
Yet  while  the  raging  tempest  is  defied, 
Deep  in  its  bosom  how  the  pent  flame  glows ! 
And  when  it  bursts  forth  in  its  fiery  wrath, 
How  melts  the  ice-hill  from  its  fearful  path, 
As  on  it  rolls,  unquench'd,  and  all  untamed !  — 
Thus  was  it  with  that  Chief  when  his  wild  passions  flamed. 

Nature's  own  statesman  —  by  experience  taught, 
He  judged  most  wisely,  and  could  act  as  well; 
With  quickest  glance  could  read  another's  thought, 
His  own,  the  while,  the  keenest  could  not  tell ; 
Warrior  —  with  skill  to  lengthen,  or  combine, 
Lead  on,  or  back,  the  desultory  line; 
Hunter  —  he  passed  the  trackless   forest  through, 
Now  on  the  'mountain  trod,  now  launch'd  the  light  canoe. 

To  the  Great  Spirit,  would  his  spirit  bow, 
With  hopes  that  Nature's  impulses  impart; 
Unlike  the  Christian,  who  just  says  his  vow 
With  heart  enough  to  say  it  all  by  heart. 
Did  we  his  virtues  from  his  faults  discern, 
Twould  teach  a  lesson  that  we  well  might  learn : 
An  inculcation  worthiest  of  our  creed, 
To  tell  the  simple  truth,  and  do  the  promised  deed. 

53 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

How  deeply  eloquent  was  the  debate, 
Beside  the  council-fire  of  those  red  men! 
With  language  burning  as  his  sense  of  hate; 
With  gesture  just;  with  eye  of  keenest  ken; 
With  illustration  simple  but  profound, 
Drawn  from  the  sky  above  him,  or  the  ground 
Beneath  his  feet;  and  with  unfalt'ring  zeal, 
He  spoke  from  a  warm  heart  and  made  e'en  cold  hearts  feel. 

And  this  is  Eloquence.     Tis  the  intense, 
Impassioned  fervor  of  a  mind  deep  fraught 
With  native  energy,  when  soul  and  sense 
Burst  forth,  embodied  in  the  burning  thought; 
When  look,  emotion,  tone,  are  all  combined  — 
When  the  whole  man  is  eloquent  with  mind  — 
A  power  that  comes  not  to  the  call  or  quest, 
But  from  the  gifted  soul,  and  the  deep-feeling  breast. 

Poor  Logan  had  it,  when  he  mourned  that  none 
Were  left  to  mourn  for  him :  — 'twas  his  who  swayed 
The  Roman  Senate  by  a  look  or  tone; 
'Twas  the  Athenian's,  when  his  foes,  dismayed, 
Shrunk  from  the  earthquake  of  his  trumpet  call; 
'Twas  Chatham's,  strong  as  either,  or  as  all; 
'Twas  Henry's  holiest,  when  his  spirit  woke 
Our  patriot  fathers'  zeal  to  burst  the  British  yoke. 


'TIS  SAID  THAT  ABSENCE  CONQUERS  LOVE 

'Tis  said  that  absence  conquers  love! 

But,  oh !  believe  it  not ; 
I've  tried,  alas !   its  power  to  prove, 

But  thou  art  not  forgot. 
Lady,  though  fate  has  bid  us  part, 

Yet  still  thou  art  as  dear  — 
As  fixed  in  this  devoted  heart 

As  when  I  clasp'd  thee  here. 

54 


FREDERICK   WILLIAM   THOMAS 

I  plunge  into  the  busy  crowd, 

And  smile  to  hear  thy  name ; 
And  yet,  as  if  I  thought  aloud, 

They  know  me  still  the  same; 
And  when  the  wine-cup  passes  round, 

I  toast  some  other  Fair ;  — 
But  when  I  ask  my  heart  the  sound, 

Thy  name  is  echoed  there. 

And  when  some  other  name  I  learn, 

And  try  to  whisper  love, 
Still  will  my  heart  to  thee  return, 

Like  the  returning  dove. 
In  vain !     I  never  can  forget, 

And  would  not  be  forgot; 
For  I  must  bear  the  same  regret, 

'Whate'er  may  be  my  lot. 

E'en  as  the  wounded  bird  will  seek 

Its  favorite  bower  to  die, 
So,  Lady !  I  would  hear  thee  speak, 

And  yield  my  parting  sigh. 
'Tis  said  that  absence  conquers  love! 

But,  oh  !  believe  it  not ; 
I've  tried,  alas !  its  power  to  prove, 

But  thou  art  not  forgot. 


55 


LEWIS  FOULKE  THOMAS 

LEWIS  FOULKE  THOMAS,  son  of  E.  S.  Thomas  and 
brother  of  Frederick  W.  and  of  Martha  M.  Thomas,  was 
born  in  Baltimore,  Md.,  about  the  year  1815.  Remov 
ing  to  Cincinnati  with  his  father's  family  in  1829,  he  assisted 
his  brother  in  conducting  the  Commercial  Advertiser  and  the 
Evening  Post,  and  later  he  became  a  contributor  to  the  Western 
Monthly  and  to  the  Cincinnati  Mirror.  In  1838  he  wrote  a 
drama  entitled  "Osceola,"  which  was  performed  in  Cincinnati,  in 
Louisville,  and  in  New  Orleans.  He  is  the  author  of  two  inter 
esting  books  of  verse:  Inda,  and  Other  Poems  (1842),  and 
Rhymes  of  the  Routes,  a  small  volume  issued  in  Washington, 
D.  C,  about  the  year  1847.  Mr.  Thomas  became  an  attorne)- 
at  law  and  practiced  his  profession  in  Washingon,  D.  C.,  in 
which  city  he  died,  in  1868. 

LOVE'S  ARGUMENT 

(Extract) 

O  love !  it  is  the  tender  rose, 
That  for  a  little  season  blows, 

And  withers,  fades,  and  dies ; 
Then  seize  it  in  its  budding  grace, 
And  in  thy  bosom  give  it  place, 

Ere  its  sweet  perfume  flies. 

Love  is  the  bubble  that  doth  swim 
Upon  the  wine-cup's  flowing  brim, 

A  moment  sparkling  there; 
Then  haste  thee,  dear,  its  sweets  to  sip, 
And  let  them  melt  upon  thy  lip, 

Or  they  will  waste  in  air. 

56 


LEWIS  FOULKE  THOMAS 

O  love !  it  is  the  dew-drop  bright 
That  steals  upon  the  flower  at  night, 

And  lingers  there  till  morn ; 
The  flower  doth  droop,  when  with  the  day 
The  sun  dissolves  the  drop  away: 

So  love  is  killed  by  scorn. 


57 


CHARLES  A.  JONES 

CHARLES  A.  JONES,  son  of  George  W.  Jones,  was  born 
in  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  about  the  year  1815.  In  his  child 
hood  he  accompanied  his  parents  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio, 
where  he  resided  during  the  greater  part  of  his  life.  At  an 
early  age  he  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  several  local  periodi 
cals,  including  the  Cincinnati  Mirror,  the  Cincinnati  Message, 
the  Western  Literary  Journal,  the  Hesperian,  and  the  Daily 
Gazette.  He  studied  law,  and,  having  been  admitted  to  the  bar 
in  1840,  he  entered  upon  the  practice  of  his  profession  in  the 
Queen  City.  He  was  married,  in  1843,  to  Miss  Charlotte  Lud- 
low,  daughter  of  James  C.  Ludlow,  of  Cincinnati.  Some  years 
later  he  removed  with  his  wife  to  New  Orleans,  where  he  re 
sumed  his  legal  practice;  but  on  account  of  failing  health  he 
returned  to  Cincinnati  in  1851,  in  which  year  he  died,  in  Mill- 
creek  Township,  Hamilton  County,  "at  the  old  Ludlow  Station1 
of  pioneer  renown." 

In  a  sketch  of  the  poet's  life,  contributed  to  Coggeshall's 
historic  volume,  W.  D.  Gallagher  says :  "Charles  A.  Jones  is  to 
be  honored  above  the  generality  of  Western  writers,  because  he 
explored  extensively,  and  made  himself  well  acquainted  with 
Western  character,  and  in  the  West,  found  the  theme  of  his 
essay,  the  incident  of  his  story,  and  the  inspiration  of  his  song. 
His  principal  poem  is  a  stirring  narrative  of  the  exploits  of  the 
bold  outlaws,  who,  in  the  infancy  of  the  settlement  of  the  West. 
had  their  common  rendezvous  in  the  celebrated  Cave-in-Rock  on 
the  Ohio.  The  subjects  of  many  of  his  lesser  productions  are 
the  rivers,  the  mounds,  the  Indian  heroes,  and  the  pioneers  of 
the  Mississippi  Valley." 


1  "A  part  of  the  original  Indian  fort,  'Ludlow  Station,'  erected  in  1790,  was  built  into 
the  locally  famous  Iyudlow  Mansion,  which  is  still  standing  in  Cumminsville,  near  Mill 
Creek." — See  History  of  Cincinnati  and  Hamilton  County.  Nelson  &  Co.,  Cincinnati,  1894. 

58 


CHARLES  A.  JONES 

TECUMSEH 

Where  rolls  the  dark  and  turbid  Thames  1 

His  consecrated  wave  along, 
Sleeps  one,  than  whose,  few  are  the  names 

More  worthy  of  the  lyre  and  song; 
Yet  o'er  whose  spot  of  lone  repose 

No  pilgrim  eyes  are  seen  to  weep; 
And  no  memorial  marble  throws 

Its  shadow  where  his  ashes  sleep. 

Stop,  stranger !  there  Tecumseh  lies ; 

Behold  the  lowly  resting-place 
Of  all  that  of  the  hero  dies; 

The  Caesar  —  Tully,  of  his  race, 
Whose  arm  of  strength,  and  fiery  tongue, 

Have  won  him  an  immortal  name, 
And  from  the  mouths  of  millions  wrung 

Reluctant  tribute  to  his  fame. 

.Stop  —  for  'tis  glory  claims  thy  tear ! 

True  worth  belongs  to  all  mankind; 
And  he  whose  ashes  slumber  here, 

Though  man  in  form  was  god  in  mind. 
What  matter  he  was  not  like  thee, 

In  race  and  color;   'tis  the  soul 
That  marks  man's  true  divinity; 

Then  let  not  shame  thy  tears  control. 

Art  thou  a  patriot  ?  —  so  was  he ! 

His  breast  was  Freedom's  holiest  shrine; 
And  as  thou  bendest  there  thy  knee, 

His  spirit  will  unite  with  thine. 


1  Thames.  A  river  in  Ontario,  Canada.  Near  its  banks,  October  5, 1813,  the  Americans, 
under  William  Henry  Harrison,  hero  of  Tippecanoe  (1811),  defeated  the  allied  forces  of 
the  British,  under  Proctor,  and  the  Indians,  under  Tecumseh,  who  was  killed  in  the  battle. 


59 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

All  that  a  man  can  give,  he  gave; 

His  life:   the  country  of  his  sires 
From  the  oppressor's  grasp  to  save: 

In  vain  —  quench'd  are  his  nation's  fires. 

Art  thou  a  soldier?  dost  thou  not 

O'er  deeds  chivalric  love  to  muse? 
Here  stay  thy  steps  —  what  better  spot 

Couldst  thou  for  contemplation  choose? 
The  earth  beneath  is  holy  ground; 

It  holds  a  thousand  valiant  braves; 
Tread  lightly  o'er  each  little  mound, 

For  they  are  no  ignoble  graves. 

Thermopylae  and  Marathon, 

Though  classic  earth,  can  boast  no  more 
Of  deeds  heroic  than  yon  sun 

Once  saw  upon  this  lonely  shore, 
When  in  a  gallant  nation's  last 

And  deadliest  struggle,  for  its  own, 
Tecumseh's  fiery  spirit  passed 

In  blood,  and  sought  its  Father's  throne. 

Oh,  softly  fall  the  summer  dew, 

The  tears  of  heaven,  upon  his  sod, 
For  he  in  life  and  death  was  true, 

Both  to  his  country  and  his  God; 
For  oh,  if  God  to  man  has  given, 

From  his  bright  home  beyond  the  skies, 
One  feeling  that's  akin  to  heaven, 

'Tis  his  who  for  his  country  dies. 

Rest,  warrior,  rest !  —  Though  not  a  dirge 
Is  thine,  beside  the  wailing  blast, 

Time  cannot  in  oblivion  merge 
The  light  thy  star  of  glory  cast; 


60 


CHARLES  A.  JONES 

While  heave  yon  high  hills  to  the  sky, 
While  rolls  yon  dark  and  turbid  river, 

Thy  name  and  fame  can  never  die  — 
Whom  Freedom  loves,  will  live  forever. 

1838. 


THE  OLD  MOUND  1 

(Extract) 

Lonely  and  sad  it  stands : 

The  trace  of  ruthless  hands 
Is  on  its  sides  and  summit,  and,  around, 
The  dwellings  of  the  white  man  pile  the  ground  ; 

And,  curling  in  the  air, 
The  smoke  of  thrice  a  thousand  hearths  is  there : 

Without,  all  speaks  of  life, —  within, 

Deaf  to  the  city's  echoing  din, 
Sleep  well  the  tenants  of  that  silent  Mound, 
Their  names  forgot,  their  memories  unrenown'd. 

Upon  its  top  I  tread, 

And  see  around  me  spread 
Temples  and  mansions,  and  the  hoary  hills. 
Bleak  with  the  labor  that  the  coffer  fills, 

'But  mars  their  bloom  the  while, 
And  steals  from  nature's  face  its  joyous  smile: 

And  here  and  there,  below, 

The  stream's  meandering  flow 
Breaks  on  the  view ;  and  westward  in  the  sky 
The  gorgeous  clouds  in  crimson  masses  lie. 


1  This  prehistoric  earth-work,  which  gave  name  to  Mound  Street,  Cincinnati,  stood  near 
the  site  of  Hughes  High  School.  It  was  originally  more  than  thirty-five  feet  in  height. 
"About  eight  feet  were  cut  off  by  General  Wayne,  in  1794,  to  prepare  it  for  the  reception 
of  a  centinel."'  In  November,  1841,  the  tumulus  was  entirely  levelled,  "in  order  to  extend 
Mound  Street  across  Fifth,  and  grade  an  alley."— See  Drake's  Picture  of  Cincinnati  (1815); 
also  Ford's  History  of  Cincinnati  (1881). 

61 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

The  hammer's  clang  rings  out, 
Where  late  the  Indian's  shout 
Startled  the  wild-fowl  from  its  sedgy  nest, 
And  broke  the  wild  deer's  and  the  panther's  rest. 

The  lordly  oaks  went  down 
Before  the  ax  —  the  cane-brake  is  a  town : 
The  bark  canoe  no  more 
Glides  noiseless  from  the  shore; 
And,  sole  memorial  of  a  nation's  doom, 
Amid  the  works  of  art  rises  this  lonely  tomb. 


62 


DANIEL  DECATUR  EMMETT 

DANIEL  DECATUR  EMMETT  was  born  at  Mount 
Vernon,  Ohio,  October  29,  1815,  and  he  died  at  the 
place  of  his  birth,  June  28,  1904.  "His  early  schooling 
was  of  the  most  elementary  character,"  writes  his  biographer, 
Hon.  C.  B.  Galbreath.  .  .  .  "In  the  printing  office  his  real 
education  began.  The  training  that  he  there  received  is  revealed 
in  the  carefully  and  generally  accurate  punctuation  of  his  manu 
script  papers.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  years  he  began  work  in 
the  office  of  the  Huron  Reflector,  at  Norwalk,  Ohio.  Shortly 
afterward  he  returned  to  Mount  Vernon  and  was  employed  by 
C.  P.  Bronson  on  the  Western  Aurora  until  he  reached  the  age 
of  seventeen  years.  Here  he  knew  the  Sherman  boys,  of  whom 
he  related  interesting  reminiscences.  .  .  .  He  entered  the 
army  at  the  early  age  of  seventeen  years  as  fifer,  and  served 
until  discharged,  July  8,  1835.  He  was  first  stationed  at  New 
port,  Kentucky,  and  afterward  at  Jefferson  Barracks,  below  St. 
Louis,  Missouri.  In  the  service  he  improved  his  opportunity  to 
study  music,  a  fact  to  which  he  has  borne  detailed  and  explicit 
testimony." 

Emmett  was  but  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old  when  he  com 
posed  the  negro  rhyme  and  melody,  "Old  Dan  Tucker,"  which 
immediately  caught  the  popular  ear  and  was  sung  and  played 
wherever  banjo  minstrelsy  afforded  entertainment.  Being  a 
natural  musician  and  comic  actor,  he  was  readily  induced  to 
travel  with  circus  shows,  and,  after  a  varied  experience,  he  was 
drawn  to  New  York  City,  where,  in  1848,  he  organized  a  troupe 
which  he  named  the  "Virginia  Minstrels/'  and  began  his  inde 
pendent  career  as  manager  and  star  singer.  In  1857  he  engaged 
with  an  organization  known  as  "Bryant's  Minstrels,"  at  470 
Broadway,  New  York,  to  act  as  "musician"  and  composer  of 
negro  melodies  and  plantation  "walk-arounds,"  and  he  continued 

63 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

his  connection  with  this  company  until  1865.  It  was  while  with 
Bryant's  Minstrels  in  New  York,  that  he  composed  the  cele 
brated  song,  "Dixie,"  which  was  first  produced  in  public  on 
September  19,  1859.  Other  compositions  by  Emmett,  which  had 
a  run  in  their  day,  were:  "Jordan  is  a  Hard  Road  to  Travel," 
"Billy  Patterson,"  "Road  to  Richmond,"  "Dar's  a  Darkey  in  de 
Tent,"  "Go  Way,  Boys,"  "Here  We  Are,  or  Cross  Ober  Jordan," 
"Striking  He,"  "Old  K-Y-Ky,"  and  "Black  Brigade." 

For  further  particulars  relating  to  the  subject  of  this  sketch, 
the  reader  is  referred  to  Galbreath's  very  entertaining  volume : 
Daniel  Decatur  Emmett,  Author  of  "Dixie,"  (illustrated.) 
Columbus,  O.,  1904. 


DIXIE  1 

I  wish  I  was  in  de  land  ob  cotton, 
Old  times  dar  am  not  forgotten; 

Look  away!     Look  away!     Look  away! 
In  Dixie  Land  whar  I  was  born  in, 
Early  on  one  frosty  mornin', 

Look  away !     Look  away !     Look  away ! 

CHORUS  : 


Dixie  Land! 


Dixie  Land ! 


Den  I  wish  I  was  in  Dixie !     Hooray !     Hooray ! 

In  Dixie's  Land  we'll  take  our  stand,  to  lib  an'  die  in  Dixie. 

Away!    away!    away  down  South  in  Dixie. 

Away!    away!    away  down  South  in  Dixie. 

In  Dixie  Land  de  darkies  grow, 
If  white  folks  only  plant  dar  toe; 

Look  away !     Look  away !     Look  away  !     Dixie  Land ! 
Dey  wet  de  groun'  wid  'bakkar  smoke, 
Den  up  de  darkies  head  will  poke. 

Look  away !     Look  away !     Look  away !     Dixie  Land ! 


1  The  orginal  version  of  "Dixie,"  here  reproduced,  was  first  published  in  a  booklet  enti 
tled  "Etnmett's  Inimitable  Plantation  Songs,"  issued  by  Firth,  Pond  &  Co.,  New  York,  1860. 

64 


DANIEL  DECATUR  EMMETT 

Missus  married  Will  de  weaber, 
Will,  he  was  a  gay  deceaber; 

Look  away !     Look  away !     Look  away !     Dixie  Land ! 
When  he  put  his  arms  around  'er, 
He  look  as  fierce  as  a  forty  pounder. 

Look  away !     Look  away !     Look  away !     Dixie  Land ! 

Ole  missus  die, —  she  took  a  decline, 
Her  face  was  de  color  ob  bacon-rhine ; 

Look  away!     Look  away!     Look  away!     Dixie  Land! 
How  could  she  act  de  foolish  part, 
An'  marry  a  man  to  broke  her  heart. 

Look  away!     Look  away!     Look  away!     Dixie  Land! 

Den  here's  a  health  to  de  next  ole  missus 
An'  all  de  gals  dat  want  to  kiss  us ; 

Look  away !     Look  away !     Look  away !     Dixie  Land ! 
Den  hoe  it  down  an'  scratch  yoa  grabble. 
To  Dixie  Land  I'm  boun'  to  trabble. 

Look  away!     Look  away!     Look  away!     Dixie  Land! 


65 


ALICE  GARY 

ALICE  GARY,  the  fourth  child  of  Robert  and  Elizabeth 
(Jessup)  Gary,  was  born  April  26,  1820,  in  a  rude 
frame  house  built  by  her  father,  in  1813,  on  a  farm  situ 
ated  within  the  present  limits  of  Mount  Healthy,  Ohio,  a  suburb 
an  village  on  Hamilton  Pike,  some  three  miles  north  of  Cincin 
nati.  In  1832  the  family  moved  to  a  new  and  more  commodious 
residence  located  near  the  site  of  their  former  dwelling,  and  the 
homestead  was  christened  "Clovernook,"  a  name  which  it  still 
retains.1  Though  denied  the  advantages  of  academic  schooling, 
Alice  early  'manifested  a  facile  talent  for  literary  composition,  and 
in  her  eighteenth  year  she  contributed  her  first  poetic  venture,  a 
piece  entitled  "The  Child  of  Sorrow,"  to  the  Sentinel  and  Star  in 
the  West,  a  Universalist  paper  issued  in  the  Queen  City.  She 
later  wrote  for  several  other  local  periodicals,  including  the  Cas 
ket,  the  Herald  of  Truth,  and  the  Western  Quarterly  Review; 
and  also  for  the  National  Era,  Washington,  D.  C,  edited  by  Dr. 
Gamaliel  Bailey,  who,  after  printing  a  number  of  her  poems  and 
sketches,  paid  her  ten  dollars,  the  first  pecuniary  reward  of  her 
literary  ambition.  Among  the  discriminating  critics  who  early 
recognized  the  unusual  merit  of  her  verse  and  encouraged  her  to 
continued  effort,  were  Otway  Curry  and  Edgar  Allen  Poe.  In 
1848,  Rufus  W.  Griswold  greatly  increased  her  reputation  by 
extolling  her  genius  and  liberally  exploiting  her  work  in  his 
notable  book,  The  Female  Poets  of  America;  and  through  his 
influence  a  small  collection  of  poems  by  Alice  and  Phoebe  Cary 
was  brought  out,  in  1850,  by  Moss  &  Brother,  Philadelphia. 
With  the  publication  of  this  joint  volume  dates  the  beginning 


1  The  Cary  property  was  purchased  by  William  A.  Procter,  of  Cincinnati,  who,  on 
March  11, 1903,  presented  it  to  the  Trader  sisters  (Miss  Georgia  D.  and  Miss  Florence  B. 
Trader),  to  be  used  as  an  institution  for  the  blind.  The  historic  homestead  is  now 
known  as  the  "Clovernook  Home  for  the  Blind." 

66 


ALICE  CARY 

of  the  Gary  sisters'  national  renown,  and  of  their  wide  acquaint 
ance  with  distinguished  thinkers  and  writers,  conspicuous  among 
whom  were  Horace  Greeley,  who,  in  1849,  called  on  the  poets 
at  their  "lonesome  and  obscure"  country  home,  and  John  G. 
Whittier,  whom  they  met  in  the  following  year,  when  they  made 
their  first  pilgrimage  to  the  East.  Recording  his  personal  remi 
niscences  of  this  visit,  in  a  poem  entitled  "The  Singer,"  Whittier 
long  afterwards  wrote: 

"Timid  and  young,  the  elder  had 
Even  then  a  smile  too  sweetly  sad; 
The  crown  of  pain  that  all  must  wear 
Too  early  pressed  her  midnight  hair. 

"Yet,  ere  the  summer  eve  grew  long, 
Her  modest  lips  were  sweet  with  song, 
A  memory  haunted  all  her  words 
Of  clover-fields  and  singing-birds. 

"Her  dark,  dilating  eyes  expressed 
The  broad  horizons  of  the  West; 
Her  speech  dropped  prairie  flowers ;  the  gold 
Of  harvest  wheat  about  her  rolled." 

In  November,  1860,  Alice  established  her  permanent  resi 
dence  in  New  York  City,  where  in  the  spring  of  1851  she  was 
joined  by  Phoebe  and  Elmina,  and  where  thenceforward  the 
three  sisters  made  their  home  together.  Here,  in  the  house 
which  the  earnings  of  her  pen  had  purchased,  at  53  East  Twen 
tieth  Street,  the  author  died,  February  12,  1870.  She  was  buried 
in  Greenwood  Cemetery,  Brooklyn. 

More  than  seventy  years  have  elapsed  since  Alice  Gary 
gathered  her  first  laurels  as  a  poet.  At  the  very  beginning  of 
her  literary  career  she  was  received  with  applause,  and  from 
year  to  year  her  reputation  steadily  advanced.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  any  other  American  woman,  through  the  accomplish 
ment  of  verse,  has  ever  attained  so  much  popular  celebrity  as 

67 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

did  this  country  girl  of  Clovernook.  Even  today  she  has  numer 
ous  readers  and  admirers,  not  only  in  Ohio  and  the  West,  but  in 
all  parts  of  the  Union.  This  is  not  because  her  verse  invariably 
stands  the  test  of  exacting  criticism,  for  it  does  not,  though  it 
frequently  possesses  the  rare  qualities  essential  to  poetic  com 
position  as  a  fine  art.  Readers  love  her  personality  and  feel 
instinctively  that  she  understands  their  feelings,  and  that  she 
writes  of  what  she  really  knows,  from  direct  observation  and 
experience.  She  was  one  of  the  poets  "sown  by  nature."  Her 
songs  "gush  from  the  heart."  Delicate  in  her  sympathies,  she 
was  sensitive  to  all  beauty  and  to  all  truth.  Every  product  of 
her  genius,  whether  in  prose  or  in  verse,  reveals  a  noble  and  gen 
erous  mind  free  from  every  taint  of  affectation. 

BALDER'S  WIFE 

Her  casement  like  a  watchful  eye 

From  the  face  of  the  wall  looks  down, 
Lashed  round  with  ivy  vines  so  dry, 

And  with  ivy  leaves  so  brown. 
Her  golden  head  in  her  lily  hand 

Like  a  star  in  the  spray  o'  the  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro, 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so  low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 
Never  so  light  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

Like  some  bright  honey-hearted  rose 

That  the  wild  wind  rudely  mocks, 
She  blooms  from  the  dawn  to  the  day's  sweet  close 
Hemmed  in  with  a  world  of  rocks. 
The  livelong  night  she  does  not  stir, 

But  keeps  at  her  casement  lorn, 

68 


ALICE  GARY 

And  the  skirts  of  the  darkness  shine  with  her 
As  they  shine  with  the  light  o'  the  morn  ; 

And  all  who  pass  may  hear  her  lay, 

But  let  it  be  what  tune  it  may, 

It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 
To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

And  there,  within  that  one-eyed  tower, 

Lashed  round  with  the  ivy  brown, 
She  droops  like  some  unpitied  flower 

That  the  rain-fall  washes  down: 
The  damp  o'  the  dew  in  her  golden  hair, 

Her  cheek  like  the  spray  o'  the  sea, 
And  wearily  rocking  to  and  fro, 
She  sings  so  sweet  and  she  sings  so  low 

To  the  little  babe  on  her  knee. 
But  let  her  sing  what  tune  she  may, 
Never  so  glad  and  never  so  gay, 
It  slips  and  slides  and  dies  away 

To  the  moan  of  the  willow  water. 

PICTURES  OF  MEMORY * 

Among  the  beautiful  pictures 
That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 

Is  one  of  a  dim  old  forest, 
That  seemeth  best  of  all : 

Not  for  its  gnarled  oaks  olden. 
Dark  with  the  mistletoe; 


1  This  piece  was  greatly  admired  by  Edgar  Allen  Poe,  who  pronounced  it  one  of  the 
most  melodious  lyrics  in  the  English  language,  and  •who,  in  his  review  of  Griswold's  The 
Female  Poets  of  America  (1848)  wrote:  "We  are  proud  to  be  able  to  say  that  one  of  Miss 
Alice  Gary's  poems  is  decidedly  the  noblest  poem  in  the  collection — although  the  most  dis 
tinguished  poetesses  in  the  land  have  here  included  their  most  praiseworthy  compositions. 
Our  allusion  is  to  'Pictures  of  Memory.'  Let  our  readers  see  it  and  judge  for  themselves. 
We  speak  deliberately: — in  all  the  higher  elements  of  poetry— in  true  imagination— in  the 
power  of  exciting  the  only  real  poetical  effect — elevation  of  the  soul,  in  contradistinction 
from  mere  excitement  of  the  intellect  or  heart — the  poem  in  question  is  the  noblest  in 
the  book." 

69 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Not  for  the  violets  golden 

That  sprinkle  the  vale  below; 
•Not  for  the  milk-white  lilies 

That  lean  from  the  fragrant  hedge, 
Coquetting  all  day  with  the  sunbeams, 

And  stealing  their  shining  edge; 
Not  for  the  vines  on  the  upland 

Where  the  bright  red  berries  be, 
Nor  the  pinks,  nor  the  pale,  sweet  cowslip, 

It  seemeth  the  best  to  me. 

I  once  had  a  little  brother, 

With  eyes  that  were  dark  and  deep  — 
In  the  lap  of  that  old  dim  forest 

He  lieth  in  peace  asleep : 
Light  as  the  down  of  the  thistle, 

Free  as  the  winds  that  blow, 
We  roved  there  the  beautiful  summers, 

The  summers  of  long  ago; 
But  his  feet  on  the  hills  grew  weary, 

And,  one  of  the  autumn  eves, 
I  made  for  my  little  brother 

A  bed  of  the  yellow  leaves. 

Sweetly  his  pale  arms  folded 

My  neck  in  a  meek  embrace, 
As  the  light  of  immortal  beauty 

Silently  covered  his  face: 
And  when  the  arrows  of  sunset 

Lodged  in  the  tree-tops  bright, 
He  fell,  in  his  saint-like  beauty, 

Asleep  by  the  gates  of  light. 
Therefore,  of  all  the  pictures 

That  hang  on  Memory's  wall, 
The  one  of  the  old  dim  forest 

Seemeth  the  best  of  all. 


70 


ALICE  GARY 

NOW,  AND  THEN 

"Sing  me  a  song,  my  nightingale, 
Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers ; 
And  make  it  low,"  he  said,  "I  pray, 
And  make  it  sweet."    But  she  said,  "Nay ; 

Come  when  the  morn  begins  to  trail 
Her  golden  glories  o'er  the  gray  — 
Morn  is  the  time  for  love's  all-hail!" 
He  said,  "The  morning  is  not  ours ! 

"Then  give  me  back,  my  heart's  delight, 

Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers, 
The  kiss  I  gave  you  yesterday  — 

See  how  the  moon  this  way  has  leant, 

As  if  to  yield  a  soft  consent. 
Surely,"  he  said,  "you  will  requite 
My  love  in  this?"      But  she  said,  "Nay." 
"Yea,  now,"  he  said.    But  she  said,  "Hush! 
And  come  to  me  at  morning-blush." 

He  said,  "The  morning  is  not  ours ! 

"But  say,  at  least,  you  love  me,  love. 

Hid  in  among  the  twilight  flowers  ; 
No  winds  are  listening,  far  or  near  — 
The  sleepy  doves  will  never  hear." 

"Ah,  leave  rne  in  my  sacred  glen; 

And  when  the  saffron  morn  shall  close 

Her  misty  arms  about  the  rose, 
Come,  and  my  speech  my  thought  shall  prove 
Not  now,"  she  said !  "not  now,  but  then." 

He  said,  "The  morning  is  not  ours !" 


71 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

TRICKSEY'S  RING 

0  what  a  day  it  was  to  us, — 
My  wits  were  upside  down, 

When  cousin  Joseph  Nicholas 
Came  visiting  from  town ! 

His  curls  they  were  so  smooth  and  bright, 
His  frills  they  were  so  fine, 

1  thought  perhaps  the  stars  that  night 
Would  be  ashamed  to  shine. 

But  when  the  dews  had  touched  the  grass, 

They  came  out,  large  and  small, 
As  if  our  cousin  Nicholas 

Had  not  been  there  at  all ! 

Our  old  house  never  seemed  to  me 

So  poor  and  mean  a  thing 
As  then,  and  just  because  that  he 

Was  come  a-visiting! 

I  never  thought  the  sun  prolonged 

His  light  a  single  whit 
Too  much,  till  then,  nor  thought  he  wronged 

My  face,  by  kissing  it. 

But  now  I  sought  to  pull  my  dress 

Of  faded  homespun  down. 
Because  my  cousin  Nicholas 

Would  see  my  feet  were  brown. 

The  butterflies  —  bright  airy  things  — 

From  off  the  lilac  buds 
I  scared,  for  having  on  their  wings 

The  shadows  of  the  woods. 

I  thought  my  straight  and  jet  black  hair 

Was  almost  a  disgrace, 
Since  Joseph  Nicholas  had  fair 

Smooth  curls  about  his  face. 


72 


ALICE  CARY 

I  wished  our  rosy  window  sprays 

Were  laces,  dropping  down, 
That  he  might  think  we  knew  the  ways 

Of  rich  folks  in  the  town. 

I  wished  the  twittering  swallow  had 

A  finer  tune  to  sing, 
Since  such  a  stylish  city  lad 

Was  come  a-visiting. 

I  wished  the  hedges,  as  they  swayed, 

Were  each  a  solid  wall, 
And  that  our  grassy  lane  were  made 

A  market  street  withal. 

I  wished  the  drooping  heads  of  rye. 

Set  full  of  silver  dews, 
Were  silken  tassels  all  to  tie 

The  ribbons  of  his  shoes ! 

And  when,  by  homely  household  slight, 
They  called  me  Tricksey  True, 

I  thought  my  cheeks  would  blaze,  in  spite 
Of  all  that  I  could  do. 

Tricksey ! —  that  name  would  surely  be 

A  shock  to  ears  polite ; 
In  short,  I  thought  that  nothing  we 

Could  say  or  do  was  right. 

For  injured  pride  I  could  have  wept, 

Until  my  heart  and  I 
Fell  musing  how  my  mother  kept 

So  equable  and  high. 

She  did  not  cast  her  eyelids  down, 

Ashamed  of  being  poor; 
To  her  a  gay  young  man  from  town 

Was  no  discomfiture. 


73 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

She  reverenced  honor's  sacred  laws 
As  much,  ay,  more  than  he, 

And  was  not  put  about  because 
He  had  more  gold  than  she; 

But  held  her  house  beneath  a  hand 

As  steady  and  serene, 
As  though  it  were  a  palace,  and 

As  though  she  were  a  queen. 

And  when  she  set  our  silver  cup 

Upon  the  cloth  of  snow, 
For  Nicholas,  I  lifted  up 

My  timid  eyes,  I  know; 

And  saw  a  ring,  as  needs  I  must, 
Upon  his  finger  shine; 

0  how  I  longed  to  have  it  just 
A  minute  upon  mine ! 

1  thought  of  fairy  folk  that  led 
Their  lives  in  sylvan  shades, 

And  brought  fine  things,  as  I  had  read, 
To  little  rustic  maids. 

And  so  I  mused  within  my  heart, 
How  I  would  search  about 

The  fields  and  woodlands,  for  my  part, 
Till  I  should  spy  them  out. 

And  so,  when  down  the  western  sky 
The  sun  had  dropped  at  last, 

Right  softly  and  right  cunningly 
From  out  the  house  I  passed. 

It  was  as  if  awake  I  dreamed, 

All  Nature  was  so  sweet 
The  small  round  dandelions  seemed 

Like  stars  beneath  my  feet. 


74 


ALICE  CARY 

Fresh  greenness  as  I  went  along 

The  grass  did  seem  to  take, 
And  birds  beyond  the  time  of  song 

Kept  singing  for  my  sake. 

The  dew  o'erran  the  lily's  cup, 
The  ground-moss  shone  so  well, 

That  if  the  sky  were  down  or  up, 
Was  hard  for  me  to  tell. 

I  never  felt  my  heart  to  sit 

So  lightly  on  its  throne ; 
Ah,  who  knew  what  would  come  of  it, 

With  fairy  folk  alone ! 

An  hour, —  another  hour  went  by, 

All  harmless  arts  I  tried, 
And  tried  in  vain,  and  wearily 

My  hopes  within  me  died. 

No  tent  of  moonshine,  and  no  ring 

Of  dancers  could  I  find, — 
The  fairy  rich  folk  and  their  king 

For  once  would  be  unkind ! 

My  spirit,  nameless  fear  oppressed; 

My  courage  went  adrift, 
As  all  out  of  the  low  dark  west 

The  clouds  began  to  lift. 

I  lost  my  way  within  the  wood, — 

The  path  I  could  not  guess, 
When,  Heaven  be  praised,  before  me  stood 

My  cousin  Nicholas! 

Right  tenderly  within  his  arm 

My  shrinking  hand  he  drew; 
He  spoke  so  low,  "These  damps  will  harm 

My  little  Tricksey  True." 


75 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

I  know  not  how  it  was :  my  shame 

In  new  delight  was  drowned ; 
His  accent  gave  my  rustic  name 

Almost  a  royal  sound. 

He  bent  his  cheek  against  my  face, — 

He  whispered  in  my  ear, 
"Why  came  you  to  this  dismal  place  ? 

Tell  me,  my  little  dear !" 

Betwixt  the  boughs  that  o'er  us  hung 

The  light  began  to  fall; 
His  praises  loosed  my  silent  tongue, — 

At  last  I  told  him  all. 

I  felt  his  lips  my  forehead  touch ; 

I  shook  and  could  not  stand ; 
The  ring  I  coveted  so  much 

Was  shining  on  my  hand! 

We  talked  about  the  little  elves 

And  fairies  of  the  grove, 
And  then  we  talked  about  ourselves, 

And  then  we  talked  of  love. 

'T  was  at  the  ending  of  the  lane, — 

The  garden  yet  to  pass, 
I  offered  back  his  ring  again 

To  my  good  Nicholas. 

"Dear  Tricksey,  don't  you  understand, 

You  foolish  little  thing," 
He  said,  "that  I  must  have  the  hand, 

As  well  as  have  the  ring?" 

"Tonight  —  just  now !     I  pray  you  wait ! 

The  hand  is  little  worth !" 
"Nay  darling  —  now !  we're  at  the  gate !" 

And  so  he  had  them  both! 


76 


ALICE  CARY 

THE  GRAY  SWAN 

"Oh  tell  me,  sailor,  tell  me  true, 
Is  my  little  lad,  my  Elihu, 

A-sailing  with  your  ship?" 
The  sailor's  eyes  were  dim  with  dew. — 
"Your  little  lad,  your  Elihu?" 

He  said  with  trembling  lip, — 
"What  little  lad?  what  ship?" 

"What  little  lad !   as  if  there  could  be 
Another  such  a  one  as  he ! 

What  little  lad,  do  you  say? 
Why,  Elihu,  that  took  to  the  sea 
The  moment  I  put  him  off  my  knee ! 
It  was  just  the  other  day 
The  Gray  Sivan  sailed  away." 

"The  other  day?"  the  sailor's  eyes 
Stood  open  with  a  great  surprise, — 

"The  other  day?   the  Swan?" 
His  heart  began  in  his  throat  to  rise. 
"Ay,  ay,  sir,  here  in  the  cupboard  lies 

The  jacket  he  had  on." 
"And  so  your  lad  is  gone?" 

"Gone  with  the  Swan."     "And  did  she  stand 
With  her  anchor  clutching  hold  of  the  sand, 

For  a  month,  and  never  stir?" 
"Why,  to  be  sure !     I've  seen  from  the  land, 
Like  a  lover  kissing  his  lady's  hand. 
The  wild  sea  kissing  her, — 
A  sight  to  remember,  sir." 

"But,  my  good  mother,  do  you  know 
All  this  was  twenty  years  ago  ? 

I  stood  on  the  Gray  Swan's  deck, 


77 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

And  to  that  lad  I  saw  you  throw, 
Taking  it  off,  as  it  might  be,  so ! 

The  kerchief  from  your  neck." 
"Ay,  and  he'll  bring  it  back!" 

"And  did  the  little  lawless  lad 
That  has  made  you  sick  and  made  you  sad, 

Sail  with  the  Gray  Swan's  crew?" 
"Lawless !    the  man  is  going  mad ! 
The  best  boy  ever  mother  had, — 
Be  sure  he  sailed  with  the  crew ! 
What  would  you  have  him  do?" 

"And  he  has  never  written  line, 

Nor  sent  you  word,  nor  made  you  sign 

To  say  he  was  alive?" 

"Hold !    if  't  was  wrong,  the  wrong  is  mine ; 
Besides,  he  may  be  in  the  brine, 

And  could  he  write  from  the  grave? 

Tut,  man!    what  would  you  have?" 

"Gone  twenty  years, —  a  long,  long  cruise, — 
'T  was  wicked  thus  your  love  to  abuse ; 

But  if  the  lad  still  live, 
And  come  back  home,  think  you  you  can 
Forgive  him?" — "Miserable  man, 

You  're  mad  as  the  sea, —  you  rave, — 
What  have  I  to  forgive?" 

The  sailor  twitched  his  shirt  so  blue, 
And  from  within  his  bosom  drew 

The  kerchief.     She  was  wild. 
"My  God !  my  Father !  is  it  true  ? 
My  little  lad,  my  Elihu! 

My  blessed  boy,  my  child ! 

My  dead,  my  living  child !" 


78 


ALICE  CARY 

IDLE 

I  heard  the  gay  spring  coming, 
I  saw  the  clover  blooming, 

Red  and  white  along  the  meadows, 

Red  and  white  along  the  streams; 
I  heard  the  bluebird  singing, 
I  saw  the  green  grass  springing, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

I  heard  the  ploughman's  whistle, 
I  saw  the  rough  burr  thistle 

In  the  sharp  teeth  of  the  harrow, 

Saw  the  summer's  yellow  gleams 
In  the  walnuts,  in  the  fennel, 
In  the  mulleins,  lined  with  flannel, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 

I  felt  the  warm,  bright  weather, 
Saw  the  harvest,  saw  them  gather 

Corn  and  millet,  wheat  and  apples, 

Saw  the  gray  barns  with  their  seams 
Pressing  wide, —  the  bare-armed  shearers, 
The  ruddy  water-bearers, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — • 

A-dreaming   idle   dreams. 

The  bluebird  and  her  nestling 
Flew  away ;  the  leaves  fell  rustling, 

The  cold  rain  killed  the  roses, 

The  sun  withdrew  his  beams: 
No  creature  cared  about  me, 
The  world  could  do  without  me, 

All  as  I  lay  a-dreaming, — 

A-dreaming  idle  dreams. 


79 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

NOBILITY  x 
True  worth  is  in  being,  not  seeming, — 

In  doing  each  day  that  goes  by 
Some  little  good  —  not  in  the  dreaming 

Of  great  things  to  do  by  ?nd  by. 
For  whatever  men  say  in  blindness, 

And  spite  of  the  fancies  of  youth, 
There's  nothing  so  kingly  as  kindness, 

And  nothing  so  royal  as  truth. 

We  get  back  our  mete  as  we  measure  — 

We  cannot  do  wrong  and  feel  right, 
Nor  can  we  give  pain  and  gain  pleasure. 

For  justice  avenges  each  slight. 
The  air  for  the  wing  of  the  sparrow, 

The  bush  for  the  robin  and  wren, 
But  alway  the  path  that  is  narrow 

And  straight,  for  the  children  of  men. 

'Tis  not  in  the  pages  of  story 

The  heart  of  its  ills  to  beguile, 
Though  he  who  makes  courtship  to  glory 

Gives  all  that  he  hath  for  her  smile. 
For  when  from  her  heights  he  has  won  her, 

Alas !  it  is  only  to  prove 
That  nothing  's  so  sacred  as  honor, 

And  nothing  so  loyal  as  love! 

We  cannot  make  bargains  for  blisses, 
Nor  catch  them  like  fishes  in  nets  ; 

And  sometimes  the  thing  our  life  misses, 
Helps  more  than  the  thing  which  it  gets. 


1  This  familiar  piece  is  a  good  example  of  the  numerous  poems  of  a  moral  and  didactic 
character,  by  Alice  Gary,  which  for  half  a  century  have  exercised  a  wholesome  and  eleva 
ting  influence  in  many  American  schools  and  homes.  Of  kindred  theme  and  motive  are 
the  poems  entitled:  "A  Sermon  to  Young  Folks,"  "Work,'1  "Old  Maxims,"  "Take  Care," 
"Proverbs  in  Rhyme,"  "Faith  and  Works." 

80 


ALICE  GARY 

For  good  lieth  not  in  pursuing, 

Nor  gaining  of  great  nor  of  small, 

But  just  in  the  doing,  and  doing 
As  we  would  be  done  by,  is  all. 

Through  envy,  through  malice,  through  hating, 

Against  the  world,  early  and  late, 
No  jot  of  our  courage  abating  — 

Our  part  is  to  work  and  to  wait. 
And  slight  is  the  sting  of  his  trouble 

Whose  winnings  are  less  than  his  worth; 
For  he  who  is  honest  is  noble, 

Whatever  his  fortunes  or  birth. 


AN  ORDER  FOR  A  PICTURE 
(Extract) 

Oh,  good  painter,  tell  me  true, 

Has  your  hand  the  cunning  to  draw 
Shapes  of  things  that  you  never  saw  ? 

Ay  ?  Well,  here  is  an  order  for  you. 

Woods  and  corn-fields,  a  little  brown, — 
The  picture  must  not  be  over-bright, — 
Yet  all  in  the  golden  and  gracious  light 
Of  a  cloud,  when  the  summer  sun  is  down. 
Alway  and  alway,  night  and  morn, 
Woods  upon  woods,  with  fields  of  corn 

Lying  between  them,  not  quite  sere, 
And  not  in  the  full,  thick,  leafy  bloom, 
When  the  wind  can  hardly  find  breathing-room 

Under  their  tassels, —  cattle  near, 
Biting  shorter  the  short  green  grass, 
And  a  hedge  of  sumach  and  sassafras, 
With  bluebirds  twittering  all  around, 
(Ah,  good  painter,  you  can't  paint  sound!) 
These,  and  the  house  where  I  was  born, 


81 


ALICE  CARY 

Low  and  little,  and  black  and  old, 
With  children,  many  as  it  can  hold, 
All  at  the  windows,  open  wide, — 
Heads  and  shoulders  clear  outside, 
And  fair  young  faces  all  ablush: 

Perhaps  you  may  have  seen,  some  day, 
Roses  crowding  the  selfsame  way, 
Out  of  a  wilding,  wayside  bush. 


Thy  works,  O  Lord,  interpret  Thee, 

And  through  them  all  Thy  love  is  shown; 

Flowing  about  us  like  a  sea, 

Yet  steadfast  as  the  eternal  throne. 

Out  of  the  light  that  runneth  through 
Thy  hand,  the  lily's  dress  is  spun ; 

Thine  is  the  brightness  of  the  dew, 
And  Thine  the  glory  of  the  sun. 


MY  DREAM  OF  DREAMS 

(Extract) 
Alone  within  my  house  I  sit; 

The  lights  are  not  for  me, 
The  music,  nor  the  mirth;  and  yet 

I  lack  not  company. 

So  gayly  go  the  gay  to  meet, 
Nor  wait  my  griefs  to  mend  — 

My  entertainment  is  more  sweet 
Than  thine,  tonight,  my  friend. 

'Whilst  thou,  one  blossom  in  thy  hand, 
Bewail'st  my  weary  hours, 

'Upon  my  native  hills  I  stand 
Waist-deep  among  the  flowers. 


82 


PHOEBE  GARY 

PHOEBE  GARY,  the  sixth  child  in  a  family  of  two  sons 
and  seven  daughters,  was  born  September  4,  1824,  in  the 
"old  brown  homestead"  at  Clovernook,  near  Mount 
Healthy,  Hamilton  County,  Ohio,  where,  with  her  elder  sister, 
she  received  her  elementary  education  in  a  log  schoolhouse, 
and  where,  surrounded  by  the  homely  environments  of  country 
life,  she  grew  to  womanhood.  In  the  spring  of  1851,  following 
the  ambitious  example  of  Alice,  she  removed  to  New  York  City, 
and  there  the  two  poets,  united  by  the  double  bond  of  common 
literary  aspiration  and  of  lifelong  mutual  devotion,  established 
their  permanent  home  together.  Phoebe  outlived  her  sister  by 
less  than  a  year  and  a  half,  dying  July  31,  1871.  She  was  buried 
by  the  side  of  Alice,  in  Greenwood  Cemetery,  Brooklyn. 

Critics  and  appraisers  of  literary  genius  have  seldom  done 
justice  to  the  exceptional  talent  of  Phoebe  Gary,  whose  reputa 
tion  as  a  poet  has  been  somewhat  obscured  by  the  greater  luster 
of  her  sister's  fame.  Though  the  amount  of  her  work  is  rela 
tively  small,  Phoebe  was  possessed  of  natural  gifts  scarcely  in 
ferior  to  those  of  Alice,  nor  was  her  artistic  instinct  less  refined 
than  that  of  her  sister.  Sincerity,  directness,  and  genuine 
poetic  feeling  are  qualities  never  absent  from  her  verse.  "No 
singer,"  writes  her  biographer,  Mary  Clemmer  Ames,  "was  ever 
more  thoroughly  identified  with  her  own  songs  than  Phoebe 
Gary.  With  but  few  exceptions,  they  distilled  the  deepest  and 
sweetest  music  of  her  soul.  They  uttered,  besides,  the  cheerful 
philosophy  which  life  had  taught  her,  and  the  sunny  faith  which 
lifted  her  out  of  the  dark  region  of  doubt  and  fear,  to  rest  for 
ever  in  the  loving  kindness  of  her  Heavenly  Father." 


83 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

OUR  HOMESTEAD  1 

Our  old  brown  homestead  reared  its  walls 

From  the  wayside  dust  aloof, 
Where  the  apple-boughs  could  almost  cast 

Their  fruit  upon  its  roof ; 
And  the  cherry-tree  so  near  it  grew 

That  when  awake  I've  lain 
In  the  lonesome  nights,  I've  heard  the  limbs 

As  they  creaked  against  the  pane; 
And  those  orchard-trees,  oh  those  orchard  trees! 

I've  seen  my  little  brothers  rocked 
In  their  tops  by  the  summer  breeze. 

The  sweet-brier,  under  the  window-sill, 

Which  the  early  birds  made  glad, 
And  the  damask  rose,  by  the  garden  fence, 

Were  all  the  flowers  we  had. 
I've  looked  at  many  a  flower  since  then, 

Exotics  rich  and  rare, 
That  to  other  eyes  were  lovelier, 

But  not  to  me  so  fair; 
For  those  roses  bright,  oh  those  roses  bright! 

I  have  twined  them  in  my  sister's  locks, 
That  are  hid  in  the  dust  from  sight. 

We  had  a  well,  a  deep  old  well, 

Where  the  spring  was  never  dry, 
And  the  cool  drops  down  from  the  mossy  stones 

Were    falling   constantly ; 
And  there  never  was  water  half  so  sweet 

As  the  draught  which  filled  my  cup, 
Drawn  up  to  the  curb  by  the  rude  old  sweep 

That  my  father's  hand  set  up. 


1  The  birthplace  of  the  Cary  sisters.  No  vestage  of  this  house  remains.  A  pleasant 
glimpse  of  the  old  homestead  is  given  by  Alice  Cary  in  the  poem  entitled  "An  Order  for  a 
Picture." 

84 


PHOEBE   CARY 

And  that  deep  old  well,  oh  that  deep  old  well ! 

I  remember  now  the  plashing  sound 
Of  the  bucket  as  it  fell. 

Our  homestead  had  an  ample  hearth, 

Where  at  night  we  loved  to  meet; 
There  my  mother's  voice  was  always  kind, 

And  her  smile  was  always   sweet; 
And  there  I've  sat  on  my  father's  knee, 

And  watched  his  thoughtful  brow, 
With  my  childish  hand  in  his  raven  hair, — 

That  hair  is  silver  now! 
But  that  broad  hearth's  light,  oh  that  broad  hearth's  light ! 

And  my  father's  look,  and  my  mother's  smile, 
They  are  in  my  heart  tonight ! 

THE  ONLY  ORNAMENT 

Even  as  a  child,  too  well  she  knew 

Her  lack  of  loveliness  and  grace; 
So,  like  an  unprized  weed  she  grew, 

Grudging  the  meanest  flower  its  face. 

Often  with  tears  her  sad  eyes  filled, 
Watching  the  plainest  birds  that  went 

About  her  home  to  pair,  and  build 
Their  humble  nests  in  sweet  content. 

No  melody  was  in  her  words; 

You  thought  her,  as  she  passed  along, 
As  brown  and  homely  as  the  birds 

She  envied,  but  without  their  song. 

She  saw,  and  sighed  to  see  how  glad 

Earth  makes  her  fair  and  favored  child; 

While  all  the  beauty  that  she  had 

Was  in  her  smile,  nor  oft  she  smiled. 


85 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

So  seasons  passed  her  and  were  gone, 
She  musing  by  herself  apart; 

Till  the  vague  longing  that  is  known 
To  woman  came  into  her  heart. 

That  feeling  born  when  fancy  teems 
With  all  that  makes  this  life  a  good, 

Came  to  her  with  its  wondrous  dreams, 
That  bless  and  trouble  maidenhood. 

She  would  have  deemed  it  joy  to  sit 
In  any  home,  or  great  or  small, 

Could  she  have  hoped  to  brighten  it 
For  one  who  thought  of  her  at  all. 

At  night,  or  in  some  secret  place, 
She  used  to  think,  with  tender  pain, 

How  infants  love  the  mother's  face, 
And  know  not  if  't  is  fair  or  plain. 

She  longed  to  feast  her  hungry  eyes 
On  anything  her  own  could  please ; 

To  sing  soft,  loving  lullabies 
To  children  lying  on  her  knees. 

And  yet  beyond  the  world  she  went, 
Unmissed,  as  if  she  had  not  been, 

Taking  her  only  ornament, 
A  meek  and  quiet  soul  within. 

None  ever  knew  her  heart  was  pained, 
Or  that  she  grieved  to  live  unsought ; 

They  deemed  her  cold  and  self-contained, 
Contented  in  her  realm  of  thought. 

Her  patient  life,  when  it  was  o'er, 
Was  one  that  all  the  world  approved ; 

Some  marveled  at,  some  pitied  her, 
But  neither  man  nor  woman  loved. 


PHOEBE   CARY 

Even  little  children  felt  the  same; 

Were  shy  of  her,  from  awe  or  fear ; — 
I  wonder  if  she  knew  they  came 

And  scattered  roses  on  her  bier ! 


TRUE  LOVE 

I  think  true  love  is  never  blind, 
But  rather  brings  an  added  light ; 

An  inner  vision  quick  to  find 

The  beauties  hid  from  common  sight. 

No  soul  can  ever  clearly  see 
Another's  highest,  noblest  part, 

Save  through  the  sweet  philosophy 
And  loving  wisdom  of  the  heart. 

Your  unanointed  eyes  shall  fall 

On  him  who  fills  my  world  with  light; 

You  do  not  see  my  friend  at  all, 

You  see  what  hides  him  from  your  sight. 

I  see  the  feet  that  fain  would  climb, 
You,  but  the  steps  that  turn  astray ; 

I  see  the  soul  unharmed,  sublime, 
You,  but  the  garment,  and  the  clay. 

You  see  a  mortal,  weak,  misled, 
Dwarfed  ever  by  the  earthly  clod ; 

I  see  how  manhood,  perfected, 
May  reach  the  stature  of  a  god. 

Blinded  I  stood,  as  now  you  stand, 
Till  on  mine  eyes,  with  touches  sweet, 

Love,  the  deliverer,  laid  his  hand, 
And  lo!  I  worship  at  his  feet! 


87 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

SONG 
I  see  him  part  the  careless  throng, 

I  catch  his  eager  eye; 
He  hurries  towards  me  where  I  wait ;  — 

Beat  high,  my  heart,  beat  high ! 

I  feel  the  glow  upon  my  cheek, 

And  all  my  pulses  thrill; 
He  sees  me,  passes  careless  by; — 

Be  still,  my  heart,  be  still ! 

He  takes  another  hand  than  mine, 

It  trembles  for  his  sake; 
I  see  his  joy,  I  feel  my  doom;  — 

Break,  oh  my  heart-strings,  break! 

VAIN  REPENTANCE 
Do  we  not  say,  forgive  us,  Lord, 

Oft  when  too  well  we  understand 
Our  sorrow  is  not  such  as  Thou 

Requirest  at  the  sinner's  hand? 

Have  we  not  sought  Thy  face  in  tears, 
When  our  desire  hath  rather  been 

Deliverance  from  the  punishment, 
Than  full  deliverance  from  the  sin? 

Alas!  we  mourn  because  we  fain 

Would  keep  the  things  we  should  resign 

And  pray,  because  we  cannot  pray  — 
Not  my  rebellious  will,  but  Thine ! 

A  WEARY  HEART 
Ye  winds,  that  talk  among  the  pines, 

In  pity  whisper  soft  and  low; 
And  from  my  trailing  garden  vines 

Bear  the  faint  odors  as  ye  go ; 

88 


PHOEBE   CARY 

Take  fragrance  from  the  orchard  trees, 
From  the  meek  violet  in  the  dell; 

Gather  the  honey  that  the  bees 
Had  left  you  in  the  lily's  bell; 

Pass  tenderly  as  lovers  pass, 

Stoop  to  the  clover-blooms  your  wings, 
Find  out  the  daisies  in  the  grass, 

The  sweets  of  all  insensate  things ; 

With  muffled  feet,  o'er  beds  of  flowers, 
Go  through  the  valley  to  the  height, 

Where  frowning  walls  and  lofty  towers 
Shut  in  a  weary  heart  tonight; 

Go  comfort  her,  who  fain  would  give 
Her  wealth  below,  her  hopes  above, 

For  the  wild  freedom  that  ye  have 
To  kiss  the  humblest  flower  ye  love! 


89 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ  was  born  in  Chester 
County,  Pa.,  March  12,  1822.  At  the  age  of  seventeen 
he  came  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  where  he  began  his  art  career 
as  a  pupil  of  the  sculptor  Clevinger,  and  as  a  portrait-painter 
under  the  patronage  of  Nicholas  Longworth.  He  afterwards 
lived,  by  turns,  in  New  York,  Boston,  Philadelphia,  London, 
Paris,  Florence,  and  Rome,  but  Cincinnati  was  always  his  favor 
ite  social  harbor  and  resort,  and  the  source  of  his  best  inspira 
tion.  In  1852,  Mr.  Read  became  a  member  of  the  Literary 
Club  of  Cincinnati,  and  from  1861  to  1867  he  was  a  resident 
of  the  Queen  City,  making  his  home  with  his  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  Cyrus  Garrett,  at  the  old  Garrett  house,  (now  "The  Sheri 
dan,")  23  East  Eighth  Street.  It  was  here  that  he  wrote  many 
of  his  poems,  including  the  spirited  and  patriotic  lines  in  reminis 
cence  of  which  the  historic  homestead  has  been  given  its  present 
name.  Perhaps  the  most  interesting  episode  of  Read's  life  in 
Cincinnati  relates  to  the  composition  of  the  poem,  "Sheridan's 
Ride,"  which  was  written  at  the  suggestion  of  Mr.  Garrett,  on 
the  afternoon  of  October  31,  1864,  and  read  on  the  evening  of 
the  same  day  by  James  E.  Murdoch,  before  an  enthusiastic 
audience  of  "two  or  three  thousand  of  the  warmest  hearts  in 
Cincinnati,"  at  Pike's  Opera  House.  According  to  Mr.  Mur 
doch,  the  piece  was  struck  off  in  about  three  hours,  and  was 
not  afterwards  altered,  excepting  to  introduce  the  stanza  record 
ing  the  fifteen-mile  stage  of  the  ride.  On  November  3,  Mr.  Read 
was  in  New  York,  where  he  attended  the  birthday  reception 
given  to  William  Cullen  Bryant,  on  which  occasion  the  new  war- 
poem  was  again  read.  At  the  close  of  the  reading  Mr.  Bryant 
grasped  the  author  by  the  hand  with  great  warmth,  exclaim 
ing,  "That  poem  will  live  as  long  as  Lochinvar!"  Referring 

90 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

to  the  origin  of  the  piece,  Gen.  Sheridan  is  reported  to  have 
said :  "The  incident  was  mine,  the  poem  Murdoch's ;  Read 
wrote  it  for  him :  —  see !" 

In  1862,  when  Cincinnati  was  threatened  by  Kirby  Smith's 
troops,  Mr.  Read  was  on  the  military  staff  of  Gen.  Lew  Wal 
lace,  commander  of  the  Union  forces  in  and  near  the  city,  and 
he  subsequently  contributed  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly  a  lucid 
account  of  the  "Siege"  of  Cincinnati.  Of  historical  and  literary 
interest  is  the  author's  occasional  poem  entitled  "Pons  Maximus," 
which  was  written  to  commemorate  the  completion  of  the  great 
Suspension  Bridge  uniting  Cincinnati  and  Covington,  Ky.,  and 
which  appeared  in  the  Daily  Commercial  on  New  Year's 
Day,  1868. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read  died  in  New  York  City,  May 
11,  1872. 

For  further  particulars  relating  to  the  poet's  career  in  Cin 
cinnati,  see  article  by  W.  H.  Venable,  in  the  Ohio  Educational 
Monthly,  May,  1898. 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE  l 

Up  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar ; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 


Copyright,  1894,  by  Harriet  Dennison  Read. 

91 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 

As  if  he  knew  the  terrible  need; 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed; 

Hills  rose  and  fell ,  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed,  and  the  heart  of  the  master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  ire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  fire. 

But  lo!  he  is  nearing  his  heart's  desire; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 

Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops. 

What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?  a  glance  told  him  both ; 

Then  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 

He  dashed  down  the  line,  'mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 

And  the  wave  of  retreat  checked  its  course  there,  because 


92 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 

With  foam  and  with  dust,  the  black  charger  was  gray; 

By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play. 

He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 

"I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 

From  Winchester,  down  to  save  the  day!" 

Hurrah!  hurrah  for  Sheridan! 

Hurrah !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 

The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Fame; 

There  with  the  glorious  general's  name, 

Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, 

"Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day, 
By  carrying   Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester,  twenty  miles  away!" 


DRIFTING * 

My  soul  to-day 

Is  far  away, 
Sailing  the  Vesuvian  Bay; 

My  winged  boat, 

A  bird  afloat, 
Swings  round  the  purple  peaks  remote: 

Round  purple  peaks 

It  sails,  and  seeks 
Blue  inlets  and  their  crystal  creeks, 

Where  high  rocks  throw, 

Through  deeps  below, 
A  duplicated  golden  glow. 


Copyright,  1894,  by  Harriet  Dennison  Read. 

93 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Far,  vague,  and  dim, 
The  mountains  swim; 
While  on  Vesuvius'  misty  brim, 
With  outstretched  hands, 
The  gray  smoke  stands 
O'erlooking  the  volcanic  lands. 

Here    Ischia    smiles 

O'er  liquid  miles; 
And  yonder,  bluest  of  the  isles, 

Calm  Capri  waits, 

Her  sapphire  gates 
Beguiling  to  her  bright  estates. 

I  heed  not,  if 

My  rippling  skiff 
Float  swift  or  slow  from  cliff  to  cliff 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise. 

Under  the  walls 

Where  swells  and  falls 
The  Bay's  deep  breast  at  intervals, 

At  peace  I  lie, 

Blown  softly  by, 
A  cloud  upon  this  liquid  sky. 

The  day,  so  mild, 

Is  Heaven's  own  child, 
With  Earth  and  Ocean  reconciled ; 

The  airs  I  feel 

Around  me  steal 
Are  murmuring  to  the  murmuring  keel. 


94 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

Over  the  rail 

My  hand  I  trail 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  sail, 

A  joy  intense, 

The  cooling  sense 
Glides  down  my  drowsy  indolence. 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Where  Summer  sings  and  never  dies, — 

O'erveiled   with   vines 

She  glows  and  shines 
Among  her  future  oil  and  wines. 

Her  children,  hid 

The  cliffs  amid, 
Are  gambolling  with  the  gambolling  kid; 

Or  down  the  walls, 

With  tipsy  calls, 
Laugh  on  the  rocks  lie  waterfalls. 

The  fisher's  child, 

With  tresses  wild, 
Unto  the  smooth,  bright  sand  beguiled, 

With  glowing  lips 

Sings  as  she  skips, 
Or  gazes  at  the  far-off  ships. 

Yon  deep  bark  goes 

Where  traffic  blows, 
From  lands  of  sun  to  lands  of  snows; 

This  happier  one, — 

Its  course  is  run 
From  lands  of  snow  to  lands  of  sun. 

O  happy  ship, 
To  rise  and  dip, 
With  the  blue  crystal  at  your  lip ! 

95 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

O  happy  crew, 
My  heart  with  you 
Sails,  and  sails,  and  sings  anew! 

No  more,  no  more 

The  worldly  shore 
Upbraids  me  with  its  loud  uproar: 

With  dreamful  eyes 

My  spirit  lies 
Under  the  walls  of  Paradise! 

THE   CLOSING   SCENE1 
Within   his    sober    realm   of   leafless    trees 

The   russet  year  inhaled  the  dreamy  air; 
Like  some  tanned  reaper  in  his  hour  of  ease, 

When  all  the  fields  are  lying  brown  and  bare. 

The   gray  barns   looking    from   their   lazy   hills 
O'er  the  dim  waters  widening  in  the  vales, 

Sent  down  the  air  a  greeting  to  the  mills, 
On  the  dull  thunder  of  alternate  flails. 

All    sights    were    mellowed    and   all    sounds   subdued, 
The  hills  seemed   farther  and  the  streams  sang  low; 

As   in    a   dream   the   distant    woodman    hewed 
His   winter   log   with   many   a  muffled   blow. 

The  embattled  forests,  erewhile  armed  in  gold, 
Their  banners  bright  with  every  martial  hue, 

Now  stood,  like  some  sad  beaten  host  of  old, 
Withdrawn  afar  in  Time's  remotest  blue. 

On  slumbrous  wings  the  vulture  held  his  flight; 

The  dove  scarce  heard  his  sighing  mate's  complaint; 
And,  like  a  star  slow  drowning  in  the  light, 

The  village  church-vane  seemed  to  pale  and  faint. 


Copyright,  1894,  by  Harriet  Dennison  Read. 

96 


THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 

The  sentinel-cock  upon  the  hill-side  crew, — 
Crew  thrice,  and  all  was  stiller  than  before, 

Silent  till  some  replying  warder  blew 

His  alien  horn,  and  then  was  heard  no  more. 

Where  erst  the  jay,  within  the  elm's  tall  crest, 

Made  garrulous  trouble  round  her  unfledged  young, 

And  where  the  oriole  hung  her  swaying  nest, 
By  every  light  wind  like  a  censer  swung; 

Where  sang  the  noisy  masons  of  the  eaves, 

The  busy  swallows,  circling  ever  near, 
Foreboding,  as  the  rustic  mind  believes, 

An  early  harvest  and  a  plenteous  year; 

Where  every  bird  which  charmed  the  vernal  feast 
Shook  the  sweet  slumber  from  its  wings  at  morn, 

To  warn  the  reaper  of  the  rosy  east, — 
All  now  was  songless,  empty,  and  forlorn. 

Alone  from  out  the  stubble  piped  the  quail, 

And  croaked  the  crow  through  all  the  dreamy  gloom; 

Alone  the  pheasant,  drumming  in  the  vale, 
Made  echo  to  the  distant  cottage  loom. 

There  was  no  bud,  no  bloom  upon  the  bowers; 

The  spiders  wove  their  thin  shrouds  night  by  night; 
The  thistle-down,  the  only  ghost  of  flowers, 

Sailed  slowly  by,  passed  noiseless  out  of  sight. 

Amid  all  this,  in  this  most  cheerless  air, 

And  where  the  woodbine  shed  upon  the  porch 

Its  crimson  leaves,  as  if  the  Year  stood  there 
Firing  the  floor  with  his  inverted  torch; 

Amid  all  this,  the  centre  of  the  scene, 

The  white-haired  matron,  with  monotonous  tread, 
Plied  the  swift  wheel,  and  with  her  joyless  mien, 

Sat,  like  a  Fate,  and  watched  the  flying  thread. 

97 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

She  had  known  Sorrow, —  he  had  walked  with  her, 
Oft  supped  and  broke  the  bitter  ashen  crust; 

And  in  the  dead  leaves  still  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  his  black  mantle  trailing  in  the  dust. 

While  yet  her  cheek  was  bright  with  summer  bloom, 
Her  country  summoned  and  she  gave  her  all; 

And  twice  War  bowed  to  her  his  sable  plume, — 
Regave  the  swords  to  rust  upon  her  wall. 

Regave  the  swords, —  but  not  the  hand  that  drew 

And  struck  for  Liberty  its  dying  blow, 
Nor  him  who,  to  his  sire  and  country  true, 

Fell  mid  the  ranks  of  the  invading  foe. 

Long,  but  not  loud,  the  droning  wheel  went  on, 

Like  the  low  murmur  of  a  hive  at  noon ; 
Long,  but  not  loud,  the  memory  of  the  gone 

Breathed  through  her  lips  a  sad  and  tremulous  tune. 

At  last  the  thread  was  snapped  —  her  head  was  bowed; 

Life  dropped  the  distaff  through  his  hands  serene, — 
And  loving  neighbors  smoothed  her  careful  shroud, 

While  Death  and  Winter  closed  the  autumn  scene. 


WILLIAM  JAMES  SPERRY 

WILLIAM  JAMES  SPERRY,  son  of  James  Sperry,  was 
born  January  25,  1823,  at  Henrietta,  N.  Y.  His  resi 
dence  in  Ohio  dates  from  the  year  1840,  when  he 
entered  Oberlin  College,  which  institution  he  attended  for  three 
consecutive  years,  and  from  which  he  graduated  in  1843,  receiv 
ing  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts.  According  to  the  recol 
lection  of  his  cousin,  Mrs.  E.  M.  Webster,  of  Spencerport,  N.  Y., 
he  was  for  a  time  engaged  with  his  brother,  Henry  H.  Sperry, 
in  the  publication  of  a  newspaper  in  Cincinnati;  and  from  a 
reference  to  his  work  by  his  friend,  the  poet  W.  D.  Gallagher, 
in  1884,  it  appears  that  Mr.  Sperry  was  associated  editorially 
with  Dr.  Gamaliel  Bailey,  who,  in  1837,  became  proprietor  of 
the  Philanthropist,  (the  organ  of  the  Ohio  Antislavery  Society,) 
a  journal  which  in  1843  was  merged  into  the  Cincinnati 
Morning  Herald,  also  an  abolitionist  paper.  In  1847  Bailey 
removed  to  Washington  City,  and  there  conducted  the  National 
Era,  (in  which  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  was  originally  published,) 
to  the  columns  of  which  Sperry  was  a  contributor.  After  the 
cholera  epidemic  of  1850,  which  demoralized  business  in  the 
Queen  City,  Mr.  Sperry  went  to  San  Francisco,  Cal.,  where 
he  died,  in  the  month  of  March,  1856.  His  memory  has  been 
kept  alive  by  the  melodious  lyric,  "A  Lament  for  the  Ancient 
People,"  a  poem  which,  after  going  the  rounds  of  the  newspaper 
press,  was  given  deserved  conspicuity  by  James  W.  Taylor,  in 
his  History  of  Ohio,  1854,  and  which  has  since  been  frequently 
reprinted,  no  less  on  account  of  its  musical  charm  than  because 
of  its  peculiar  historical  interest. 


99 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

A  LAMENT  FOR  THE  ANCIENT  PEOPLE 

Sad  are  fair  Muskingum's  waters, 

Sadly,  blue  Mahoning  raves; 
Tuscarawas'  plains  are  lonely, 

Lonely  are  Hockhocking's  waves. 
From  where  headlong  Cuyahoga 

Thunders  down  its  rocky  way, 
And  the  billows  of  blue  Erie 

Whiten  in  Sandusky's  bay, 
Unto  where  Potomac  rushes 

Arrowy  from  the  mountain  side, 
And  Kanawha's  gloomy  waters 

Mingle  with  Ohio's  tide, 
From  the  valley  of  Scioto, 

And  the  Huron  sisters  three, 
To  the  foaming  Susquehanna 

And  the  leaping  Genesee ; 
Over  hill  and  plain  and  valley  — 

Over  river,  lake  and  bay  — 
On  the  water  —  in  the  forest  — 

Ruled  and  reigned  the  Seneca. 

But  sad  are  fair  Muskingum's  waters, 

Sadly,  blue  Mahoning  raves ; 
Tuscarawas'  plains  are  lonely, 

Lonely  are  Hockhocking's  waves. 
By  Kanawha  dwells  the  stranger, 

Cuyahoga  feels  the  chain, 
Stranger  ships  vex  Erie's  billows, 

Strangers  plow  Scioto's  plain. 
And  the  Iroquois  have  wasted 

From  the  hill  and  plain  away; 
On  the  waters, —  in  the  valley, — 

Reigns  no  more  the  Seneca. 
Only  by  the  Cattaraugus, 

Or  by  Lake  Chautauqua's  side, 

100 


WILLIAM  JAMES  SPERRY 

Or  among  the  scanty  woodlands 
By  the  Allegheny's  tide, — 

There,  in  spots,  like  sad  oases, 
Lone  amid  the  sandy  plains, 

There  the  Seneca,  still  wasting, 
Amid   desolation   reigns. 


101 


WILLIAM  PENN  BRANNAN 

WILLIAM  PENN  BRANNAN,  poet  and  artist,  was  born 
in  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  March  22,  1825.  Of  his  efforts  with 
the  pen,  W.  T.  Coggeshall  wrote,  in  1860 :  "Mr.  Brannan 
is  a  regular  poetical  contributor  to  several  leading  literary  jour 
nals,  and  is  the  author  of  humorous  sketches  in  prose,  which  have 
been  read  wherever  American  newspapers  are  circulated."  One 
of  Brannan's  laughter-provoking  pieces,  a  burlesque  sermon,  or 
extravaganza,  entitled  "The  Harp  of  a  Thousand  Strings,"  was 
immensely  popular  on  the  school  stage,  and  with  professional 
elocutionists.  The  only  book  published  by  this  author  is  a 
volume,  issued  in  Cincinnati  in  1865,  bearing  the  title,  "Vagaries 
of  Vandyke  Brown;  an  Autobiography  in  Verse."  The  poet 
died  in  St.  Mary's  Hospital,  Cincinnati,  in  1866. 


SAINT  MARY'S  HOSPITAL 

(Extracts) 


The  east  is  red  with  beacon-fires, 

And  night's  deep  shadows  are  withdrawn 
From  silent  streets  and  hill  and  lawn; 

And  sunlight  gilds  the  heavenward  spires, 
Where  sweet  bells  ring  another  dawn. 

Now,  struggling  from  the  arms  of  sleep, 
I  wake  once  more  to  joy  and  pain  — 
I  wake  to  mortal  life  again, 

And  look  abroad  o'er  heaven's  blue  deep 
Where  sunlight  sheds  its  golden  rain. 


102 


WILLIAM  PENN  BRANNAN 

The  sunshine  flashes  down  the  walls, 
And  matin  bells  peal  forth  again 
Return  of  prayer  —  return  of  pain  — 

Like  troubled  sounds  of  waterfalls, 
Baptizing  all  the  heart  and  brain. 

And  wandering  thought  returns  once  more; 
The  day  is  wearing  into  noon, 
Yet  health,  that  ever-precious  boon, 

Has  fled  beyond  my  chamber-door 
Away  into  the  fields  of  June. 


And  where  is  he  that  died  today? 

Whose  form  was  borne  away  from  hence, 
Bereft  of  mortal  life  and  sense, — 

As  cold  and  stark  as  potter's  clay, — 
His  dead  remains  a  rank  offense? 

We  all  must  follow  in  his  wake, 
Wherever  gone  or  whither  bound; 
We  all  will  meet  on  common  ground, 

And  take  our  chance  through  Jesus'  sake, 
To  reach  where  heavenly  joys  abound. 

Yet  life  is  dear  to  all  that  groan; 
They  long  and  yet  they  fear  to  go 
To  endless  bliss  or  endless  woe  — 

A  leap  into  the  dark  unknown 

That  clouds  the  skeptic's  stolid  brow. 

Thus,  struggling  on  through  doubts  and  fears, 
Now  daring  all  —  now  doubting  naught, 
My  soul  is  swayed  by  varied  thought, 

And  drifts  along  the  tide  of  years 
With  all  the  teachers  and  the  taught. 


103 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

I  will  not  bow  with  patient  knees 
To  mouldering  laws  or  bigot  creeds ; 
My  nature  knows  its  wants  and  needs, 

And  scorns  all  cant  hypocrisies 

Of  hollow  words  and  empty  deeds. 

I  am  unto  myself  a  law; 

No  mortmain  reaching  from  the  grave, 
Shall  drag  me  down  where  demons  rave, 

Or  bow  my  soul  with  servile  awe 

To  that  which  has  no  power  to  save. 
*  *  * 

A  larger  breadth  of  heart  and  mind, 

A  genial  grasp,  a  loving  law, 

Would  melt  each  stubborn  soul,  and  draw 
In  bonds  of  peace  all  human-kind 

•Not  stultified  by  slavish  awe. 

A  larger  love  for  those  who  fall, 
A  faith  that  reaches  from  the  sod 
Of  Adam-nature  up  to  God, 

And  finds  the  germ  of  good  in  all  — 
*From  angels  to  an  outcast  clod. 
*  *  * 

Where  Truth  and  Error,  hand  in  hand, 
Have  sped  along  the  shores  of  time, 
And  scattered  seeds  of  peace  and  crime, 

I,  too,  have  overwalked  the  land, 

And  planted  thorns  and  buds  sublime. 

The  footprints  of  a  world  gone  by, 
The  records  of  a  golden  age, 
The  deeds  of  savage,  saint,  and  sage, 

The  pyramids  that  pierce  the  sky, 
Are  landmarks  of  my  pilgrimage. 


104 


WILLIAM  PENN  BRANNAN 

I  envy  every  bird  that  flies 

And  clips  the  air  on  soaring  wings; 

•I  envy  every  lark  that  sings 
Away  in  cool  eternal  skies, 

Where  heavenly  music  reigns  and  rings. 

And  I  would  cool  my  burning  brow 
Beneath  a  roaring  waterfall 
O'ershadowed  by  a  forest  tall, 

Where  not  a  ray  of  sunlit  glow 

E'er  warmed  the  rocky,  dripping  wall : 

No  sound  of  woe  could  reach  me  there, 
No  human  eye  would  mark  the  spot, 
'No  search  would  find  the  hidden  grot, 

Afar  from  wasting  pain  and  care, 
Where  I  might  rest  and  be  forgot. 


105 


HELEN  LOUISA  BOSTWICK  BIRD 

AMONG  the  biographical  and  critical  notices  in  Cogge- 
shall's  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West,  there  is  a  brief 
sketch  of  Helen  Louisa  Bostwick,  contributed  by  W.  D. 
Howells,  who  says:  "No  woman  poet  of  our  country,  as  the 
writer  of  this  sketch  thinks,  has  surpassed  Mrs.  Bostwick  in 
those  graces  of  thought  and  style  which  distinguish  her  poems. 
Her  choice  of  words  is  extremely  felicitous;  her  rhyme  is  rich 
and  full ;  her  verse  is  always  sweet  and  harmonious.  ...  If 
her  faculty  does  not  amount  to  genius,  it  is  at  least  transcendent 
talent." 

Mrs.  Helen  Louisa  Bostwick  Bird,  a  daughter  of  Dr.  Putnam 
Barrow,  was  born  January  5,  1826,  at  North  Charlestown,  New 
Hampshire,  where  the  first  twelve  years  of  her  girlhood  were 
passed.  Here  she  received  an  elementary  common-school  educa 
tion,  which  was  supplemented  by  special  private  tuition  under 
Rev.  A.  A.  Miner,  of  Boston.  In  1838  she  removed  with  her 
father  and  mother  to  a  farm  near  Ravenna,  Portage  County,  Ohio, 
where,  in  1844,  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  she  was  married  to  Mr. 
Edwin  Bostwick.  Her  husband  died  September  9,  1860,  leaving 
two  daughters, —  Florence,  who  lived  to  be  only  fifteen  years 
old,  and  Marion,  who  died  at  the  age  of  thirty.  Mrs.  Bostwick 
remained  in  widowhood  until  1875,  when  she  became  the  wife  of 
Dr.  John  F.  Bird,  and  removed  with  him  to  Philadelphia,  where 
he  died  January  20,  1904,  and  where  the  subject  of  this  sketch 
continued  to  reside  during  the  remainder  of  her  life.  She  died 
December  20,  1907. 

Nearly  all  of  Mrs.  Bird's  literary  work  was  done  in  Ohio, 
chiefly  within  the  period  of  her  first  widowhood.  She  began 
writing  for  the  press  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  was  for  many 
years  a  valued  contributor  to  various  newspapers  and  magazines, 
including  the  National  Era,  the  New  York  Independent,  the 

106 


HELEN  LOUISA  BOSTWICK  BIRD 

Home  Monthly,  the  Ohio  Farmer,  the  Home  Journal,  the  Satur 
day  Evening  Post,  and  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

Mrs.  Bird's  best  poems,  most  of  which  were  produced  sub 
sequently  to  the  publication  of  Coggeshall's  pioneer  collec 
tion,  are  to  be  found  in  a  little  volume  entitled  Four 
O'Clocks,  which  was  issued  in  Philadelphia  in  1888.  That  the 
brilliant  promise  which  Mr.  Howells  discovered  in  the  author's 
earlier  verse  was  not  illusory,  but  betokened  the  unfolding  of 
original  powers  so  exceptional  as  to  entitle  their  possessor  to  a 
place  of  distinction  among  the  women  poets  of  her  time,  is 
demonstrated  by  the  contents  of  the  volume  just  named,  several 
typical  selections  from  which  are  here  given. 


DRAFTED 

Who's  drafted?     Not  Harry!    my  son!     Why  man,  'tis  a  boy 

at  his  books; 

No  taller,  I  think,  than  your  Annie ;  as  delicate,  too,  in  his  looks. 
Why,  it  seems  but  a  day  since  he  helped  me,  girl-like,  in  my 

kitchen,  at  tasks; 
He  drafted !     Great  God  —  can  it  be  that  our  President  knows 

what  he  asks? 

He  never  could  wrestle  —  this  boy  —  though  in  spirit  as  bold 

as  the  best; 
Narrow-chested  a   little,  you   notice,   like   him  who  has   long 

been  at  rest. 
Too  slender  for  over-much  study;    why,  his  master  has  made 

him  to-day 
Go  out  with  his  ball  on  the  common, —  and  you've  drafted  a 

child  at  his  play! 

Not  a  patriot?  Fie!  did  I  whimper  when  Robert  stood  up 
with  his  gun,  ' 

And  the  hero-blood  chafed  in  his  forehead,  the  evening  we 
heard  of  Bull  Run? 


107 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Pointing  his  finger  at  Harry,  but  turning  his  eyes  to  the  wall, 
"There's  a  staff  growing  up  for  your  age,  mother,"  said  Robert, 

"if  I  should  fall." 

Eighteen?     Oh,  I  know;    and  yet  narrowly, —  just  a  wee  babe 

on  the  day 
When  his   father  got  up   from  a  sick  bed,  and  cast  his  last 

ballot  for  Clay; 
Proud  of  his  boy  and  his  ticket!     Said  he:     "A  new  morsel 

of  fame 
We'll  lay  on  our  candidate's  altar,"  and  christened  the  child 

with  his  name. 

Oh,  what  have  I  done,  a  weak  woman,  in  what  have  I  meddled 

with  harm, 
Troubling  only  my  God  for  the  sunshine  and  rain  on  my  rough 

little   farm, 
That   my   ploughshares    are   beaten   to    swords,    and   whetted 

before  my  eyes? 
That  my  tears  must  cleanse  a  foul  nation,  my  lamb  be  a  sacrifice  ? 

Oh,  'tis  true  there's  a  country  to  save,  man,  and  'tis  true  there 

is  no  appeal; 
But  did  God  see  my  boy's  name  lying  the  uppermost  one  in 

the  wheel? 

Five  stalwart  sons  has  my  neighbor,  and  never  the  lot  upon  one ! 
Are  these  things  Fortune's  caprices,  or  is  it  God's  will  that  is 

done? 

Are  the  others  too  precious  for  resting  where  Robert  is  taking 

his  rest? 
With  the  pictured  face  of  your  Annie  lying  over  the  rent  in 

his  breast; 
Too  tender  for  parting  with  sweethearts,  too  fair  to  be  crippled 

and  scarred? 
My  boy !    thank  God  for  these  tears ;    I  was  growing  so  bitter 

and  hard! 

108 


HELEN  LOUISA  BOSTWICK  BIRD 

Let  us  sit  by  the  firelight,  Harry;    let  us  talk  in  the  firelight's 

shine 
Of   something   that's   nobler   than   living,   of   a   Love   that   is 

higher  than  mine, 
That  shall  go  with  my  soldier  to  battle,  shall  stand  with  my 

picket  on  guard; — 
My  boy !   thank  God  for  these  tears ;    I  was  growing  so  bitter 

and  hard! 


MY  MOUNTAIN 

My  mountain's  base  has  goodly  breadth  of  green; 
Laps  of  lush  grass  and  lilied  sacristies, 
Groves  rapturous  with  music.     Sharp  from  these 
Steep  crags  uprise  and  dizzy  cliffs  o'erlean, 
And  pallid  cataracts  totter  out  between. 
Far  up  —  its  lofty  summits  loom,  stark  white ; 
They  know  the  storm-clouds,  thunders,  and  great  light. 
Midway  — 'tis  belted  by  a  broad  plateau, 
My  zone  of  calms.     Short  turf,  few  flowers,  but  fair, 
Are  here;   cold  waters  and  swift  wholesome  air. 
Here  in  thin,  grateful  shade,  I  sit  and  dream, 
While  tawny  August  tans  the  fields  below. 
"How  cold !"  I  say,  "my  mountain  summits  gleam." 
Almost  I  seem  to  touch  their  caps  of  snow. 
Then,  smiling,  mark  far  downward,  'neath  my  feet, 
The  steel  blue  verges  shimmering  in  the  heat, 
And  distant  reapers  resting  by  their  wheat. 


MY  ISLAND 

My  feet  have  never  trod  thy  flowery  ways, 

O  my  fair  Island,  situate  in  the  sea, 

Whose  green  curled  tongues  still  lap  thee  back  from  me, 
Strive  how  I  may.     Yet  oft  in  wintry  days 
I  stretch  my  hands  toward  thee  as  toward  a  blaze 

109 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

That  warms  and  cheers.     I  know  what  beauty  fills 

Those  groves  of  thine,  what  flash  of  crimson  bills 
Adrip  with  music ;  what  sweet  wind  delays 

Among  the  bashful  lilies  cloistered  there. 

In  summer  heats  I  watch,  through  dust  and  glare, 
The  grey  mists  wrap  thee,  and  across  thy  crest 
The  rainy  grass  blown  slantwise  toward  the  west, 

While  mutinous  fountains  shake  their  jeweled  hair. 
Sometimes  I  seek  thee  ill,  (oh,  deaf  and  blind!) 

And  cannot  find  thee,  lovliest,  anywhere ; 

Yet  —  whether  by  some  vague,  stirred  pulse  of  air, 
Or  fugitive  sweet  odor  undefined  — 

Even  then  I  know  thee,  O  thou  rare  and  fair, 
That  thou  dost  lie  between  me  and  the  wind ! 


MY  RIVER 

Sing  out,  laugh  out,  O  River,  glad  and  new, 
Sing  out,  ring  out,  the  wooded  gorges  through ; 
Sing,  sing,  and  bring  from  'meadows  morning-sweet, 
The  green  of  mosses  on  your  twinkling  feet. 
White  gleam  your  dainty  shallops  in  the  sun, 
And  deftly  row  the  rowers,  all  as  one. 

—  Sing  louder,  River,  for  the  noon  is  high, 
And  swiftly  speed  the  freighted  barges  by, 
And  deftly  row  the  rowers  as  they  sing, 

"That  which  we  bear  away  we  never  bring." 

—  O  River,  widening  toward  an  unseen  tide, 
Your  slowing  current  seeks  the  yielding  side, 
And  heavily  row  the  rowers  as  they  feel 
The  long  waves  lapsing  underneath  the  keel. 
Sing  low  — -  sing  low  —  O  River,  winding  slow, 
The  sea  is  near  —  the  darkness  falls  —  sing  low ! 


110 


HELEN  LOUISA  BOSTWICK  BIRD 

MY  LAKE 

My  little  lake  doth  in  a  valley  lie, 

Bowered  deep  in  green  of  ancient  solitudes ; 
No  dust  nor  din  of  highway  cometh  nigh, 

No  reek  of  towns  can  pass  these  winnowing  woods. 
One  stilly  nook  it  has  whose  borders  keep 

Trace  of  a  shape  to  human  outline  true ; 
As  if  some  Queen  of  Naiads,  fallen  asleep, 

Veiled  her  soft  beauty  'neath  the  dimpling  blue. 
And  see  —  upon  the  cove's  remotest  edge, 
A  single  lily  trembling  in  the  sedge ; 
As  if  the  gracious  sleeper  lightly  slept, 

And  from  Hneath  her  garment's  tremulous  hern 
One  fair  white  instep  in  a  dream  had  crept, 

Lighting  up  all  the  dim  place  like  a  gem. 

SO  MANY  TIMES 

To-day,  beloved,  if  one  should  say  to  me, 
"Some  great,  new  joy  awaits  thy  friend  and  thee," 

Perchance  I  should  turn  wearily,  and  say, 
"Nay;   let  to-morrow  be  as  yesterday." 

So  many  times  have  we  two  feared  to  touch 
The  summer's  largesse,  purpling  o'er  the  lands, 

Lest  our  pale  blood  be  colored  overmuch ; 
So  many  times  sat  still  with  heavy  hands, 

Watching  the  mellow  vintage  go  to  waste, 

And  we  too  tired,  dear  heart,  too  tired  to  taste. 

'Twill  not  be  thus,  O  friend,  'twill  not  be  thus 
In  distant  summers,  ripening  slow  for  us ; 
When  we  shall  walk  beside  the  fruited  vines 
Full-handed,  and  press  out  the  cordial  wines. 
Nor  drop  the  cup  from  hands  too  weak  to  hold, 
Nor  fear  to  taste,  nor  tasting,  fear  to  stop ; 

111 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

"O  cup  so  new,"  our  lips  shall  cry,  "yet  old ; 
O  cup  so  sweet,  and  yet  no  cloying  drop ! 
O  cup  so  full,  and  yet  no  overflow  — 
How  could  we  know,  dear  heart,  how  could  we  know !" 


HOW  THE  GATES  CAME  AJAR 

'Twas  whispered  one  morning  in  Heaven, 

How  the  little  child-angel,  May, 
By  the  side  of  the  great  white  portal, 

Sat  sorrowing  night  and  day. 
How  she  said  to  the  stately  warden 

(Keeper  of  key  and  bar), — 
"O  angel,  sweet  angel,  I  pray  you, 

Set  the  beautiful  gates  ajar. 
Only  a  little,  I  pray  you, 

Set  the  beautiful  gates  ajar ! 

"I  can  hear  my  mother  weeping; 

She  is  lonely  —  she  cannot  see 
One  glimmer  of  light  in  the  darkness, 

Where  the  gates  closed  after  me. 
One  gleam  of  the  golden  splendor, 

O  warden !   would  shine  so  far ;" 
But  the  warden  answered:     "I  dare  not 

Set  the  beautiful  gates  ajar." 
Spoke  low  as  he  answered :     "I  dare  not 

Set  the  beautiful  gates  ajar." 

Then  up  arose  Mary  the  Blessed, 
Sweet  Mary,  Mother  of  Christ; 

Her  hand  on  the  hand  of  the  angel 
She  laid,  and  her  touch  sufficed. 

Turned  was  the  key  in  the  portal, 
Fell  ringing  the  golden  bar; 

112 


HELEN  LOUISA  BOSTWICK  BIRD 

And  lo !  in  the  little  child's  fingers 
Stood  the  beautiful  gates  ajar. 

In  the  little  child-angel's  fingers 
Stood  the  beautiful  gates  ajar! 

"And  this  key,  forever  and  ever, 

To  my  blessed  Son  shall  be  given;" 
Said  Mary,  Mother  of  Jesus  — 

Tenderest  heart  in  Heaven. 
Now,  never  a  sad-eyed  mother 

But  may  catch  the  glory  afar, 
Since  safe  in  the  Lord  Christ's  bosom 

Are  the  keys  of  the  gates  ajar ; 
Safe  hid  in  the  dear  Christ's  bosom, 

And  the  gates  forever  ajar! 

THE  LOST  IMAGE 

A  wandering  singer  at  my  door 
Asked  leave  to  try  her  minstrelsy ; 
Small  pain  the  discord  was  to  me, 

And  still  the  children  begged  for  more. 

Some  coins  I  gave  for  peace  at  last; 
But,  as  she  thrust  them  in  her  dress, 
Striving  to  make  its  scantiness 

Hold  all  her  gathered  treasures  fast, 

Some  sudden  terror  o'er  her  crept; 
Apart  her  ragged  robe  she  tore, 
Felt  all  its  foldings  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  still  so  bitterly  she  wept; 

So  oft  her  swarthy  brow  she  crossed, 
So  scanned  the  turf  about  her  feet 
With  "Misereres"  mournful-sweet, 

That  from  her  bosom  she  had  lost 


113 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Some  precious  thing  I  gathered  well ; 

But  speech  so  strangely  did  she  mix, 

That  if  it  were  a  crucifix, 
Or  book,  or  beads,  I  could  not  tell. 

She  went  away  disconsolate, 

Searching  her  tattered  tunic  o'er, 
Wailing  and  moaning,  more  and  more, 

And  looking  backward  from  the  gate. 

Next  morning  — 'midst  the  lilac  slips, 

The  children  found,  and  brought  in  haste, 
An  image,  rude  and  time-defaced, 

Yet  with  strange  sweetness  on  the  lips. 

So  then,  those  wretched  rags,  we  knew 
Had  held  our  faith's  sublimest  sign; 
As  glimpses  of  the  One  Divine 

Oft  peep  some  moral  ruin  through. 

So,  when  for  meaner  gains,  we  lose 
That  faithful  presence  in  our  breast, 
Vain  words  of  moaning  and  unrest 

Are  all  the  cheated  soul  can  use. 


THE  LITTLE  COFFIN 

'Twas  a  tiny  rosewood  thing, 
Ebon  bound,  and  glittering 
With  its  stars  of  silver  white, 
Silver  tablet,  blank  and  bright, 
Downy  pillowed,  satin  lined, 
That  I,  loitering,  chanced  to  find 
'Mid  the  dust,  and  scent,  and  gloom 
Of  the  undertaker's  room, 
Waiting  empty  —  ah !    for  whom  ? 

114 


HELEN  LOUISA  BOSTWICK  BIRD 

Ah !  what  love- watched  cradle-bed 
Keeps  to-night  the  nestling  head; 
Or,  on  what  soft,  pillowing  breast 
Is  the  cherub  form  at  rest, 
That  ere  long,  with  darkened  eye, 
Sleeping  to  no  lullaby, 
Whitely  robed,  and  still,  and  cold, 
Pale  flowers  slipping  from  its  hold, 
Shall  this  dainty  couch  enfold? 
Ah !  what  bitter  tears  shall  stain 
All  this  satin  sheen  like  rain, 
And  what  towering  hopes  be  hid 
'Neath  this  tiny  coffin  lid, 
Scarcely  large  enough  to  bear 
Little  words,  that  must  be  there, 
Little  words,  cut  deep  and  true, 
Bleeding  mothers'  hearts  anew  — 
Sweet,  pet  name,  and  "Aged  Two." 

Oh!    can  sorrow's  hovering  plume 
Round  our  pathway  cast  a  gloom 
Chill  and  darksome  as  the  shade 
By  an  infant's  coffin  made! 
From  our  arms  an  angel  flies, 
And  our  startled,  dazzled  eyes 
Weeping  round  its  vacant  place, 
Cannot  rise  its  path  to  trace, 
Cannot  see  the  angel's  face ! 

IN  THE   FISHER'S   HUT 

Storm  blowing  wild  without,  waves  at  fearful  height, 
Three  little  frightened  ones  keeping  watch  and  light ; 
111  fare  the  fishermen  out  of  port  to-night! 

Winsome  maid  is  Blonde-hair,  scarcely  turned  eleven, 
Sturdy  boy  is  Brown-hair,  lacks  a  month  of  seven ; 
Baby  girl  is  Gold-hair,  one  year  out  of  Heaven. 


115 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Fast  drives  the  little  boat ;  there  are  rocks  ahead  — 

How  beats  the  father's  heart  in  that  hour  of  dread ! 

"Christ,  they  are  motherless !"  were  the  words  he  said. 

"Christ  —  they  are  motherless !"     Did  an  angel  bear 
Heavenward  that  anguished  cry?  —  yet  a  little  prayer, 
"Please  God,  keep  father  safe,"  was  before  it  there. 

Anxious  maiden  Blonde-hair  heaps  the  driftwood  higher, 
Fearful  heart  has  Brown-hair,  holding  closely  by  her; 
Sleepy  baby   Gold-hair,   winking  at   the   fire. 

O  ruddy  cottage  light,  pierce  the  blinding  storm, 
Wreathe  round  the  headlands  dim,  like  a  rosy  form; 
Hands  make  a  gallant  fight  when  the  heart  is  warm. 

Crash !  parts  the  little  boat  amidst  breakers  white ! 
Strike  bravely,  fisherman !  for  the  home  in  sight. 
Love  nerves  the  father's  arm  —  love  will  win  to-night. 

Happy  eyes  has  Blonde-hair,  pouring  father's  tea, 
Noisy  tongue  has  Brown-hair,  nestling  on  his  knee ; 
"Goo,"  says  baby  Gold-hair,  waking  up  to  see ! 

TOO  FINE  FOR  MORTAL  EAR 

"Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 

Are  sweeter,"  sang  a  gentle  poet,  well; 
And   somewhere  in  Arabia  lives   a  bird 

Whose  little  throat  seems  evermore  to  swell 
With  music,  while  the  tender,  golden  tongue 
Throbs  in  the  parted  beak  as  if  she  sung; 
Yet  ne'er  by  sound  the  brooding  air  is  stirred 
Save  when  on  almond  trees  she  folds  her  wings ; 
Yet  men  do  follow  her,  and  cry  "She  sings ! 
Yea  always  sings  had  we  but  ears  to  hear ;" 
And  when  across  the  vacant  morning  clear 

Her  rare  and  rapturous  melody  she  flings, 
"Ah  iGod !"  they  cry,  low  listening  'neath  her  tree, 
"How  ravishing  sweet  the  unheard  notes  must  be !" 

116 


WILLIAM  RAINES  LYTLE1 

WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE,  son  of  General  Robert 
Todd  and  Elizabeth  (Haines)  Lytle,  and  grandson  of 
General  William  Lytle,  was  born,  November  2,  1826, 
in  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  at  the  old  Lytle  homestead,2  on  Lawrence 
Street.  Inheriting  from  paternal  ancestors  a  martial  spirit  and 
a  gift  of  eloquence,  and  from  his  mother  a  poetic  strain,  he 
early  manifested  a  tendency  to  express  himself  in  oratorical 
prose  and  in  romantic  verse,  the  favorite  themes  on  which  he 
exercised  his  boyish  invention  being  patriotic.  Young  Lytle 
received  his  academic  training  at  the  Cincinnati  College,  (of 
which  his  grandfather  was  one  of  the  founders  and  in  which 
his  father  was  educated,)  where  he  devoted  himself  with  zeal 
to  the  study  of  languages, —  English,  Latin,  Greek,  German, 
and  French, —  and  where,  before  he  had  reached  his  seventeenth 
year,  he  had  completed  the  prescribed  course,  graduating  with 
honors,  the  youngest  in  his  class.  In  1843  he  began  the  study 
of  law  in  the  office  of  his  uncle,  E.  S.  Haines,  under  whose 
guidance  he  was  prepared  for  admission  to  the  bar. 

The  Mexican  War,  which  broke  out  in  1846,  had  a  roman 
tic,  adventurous,  and  spectacular  character  irresistibly  attractive 
to  young  men  of  cavalier  instincts,  and  the  call  for  volunteers 
did  not  fail  to  arouse  the  martial  blood  and  patriotic  enthusiasm 
of  Lytle,  summoning  him  to  don  the  sword  of  his  fathers.  From 
October  5,  1847,  until  July  25,  1848,  he  was  engaged  in  active 
military  duty,  serving  for  a  time  as  First  Lieutenant  and  after 
ward  as  Captain,  of  Company  L,  Second  Ohio  Volunteer  Cav 
alry,  a  regiment  which  was  disbanded  on  the  fifth  of  Octo 
ber,  1848. 

1  See  Poems  of  William  Haines  I,ytle,  edited,  with  Memoir,  by  W.  H.  Venable,  (The 
Robert  Clarke  Co.,  1894,)  from  which  the  material  of  this  sketch  is  mainly  derived. 

*  This  historic  mansion,  built  in  1810  by  the  poet's  grandfather,  was  the  first  brick  house 
of  its  grade  erected  in  Cincinnati.  It  was  still  standing,  in  the  then  newly  dedicated 
I,ytle  Park,  until  the  year  1908,  when  it  was  torn  down  by  authority  of  the  City  Council. 

117 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Returning  to  Cincinnati  at  the  close  of  the  war,  Lytle  en 
tered  into  a  law  partnership  with  the  firm  of  Haines,  Todd  & 
Lytle,  and  was  soon  recognized  in  the  Queen  City  as  one  of 
the  ablest  members  of  the  legal  profession.  In  1852  he  was 
elected  to  a  seat  in  the  Ohio  Legislature,  in  which  body  he  served 
with  distinction.  His  growing  popularity,  among  both  Demo 
crats  and  Whigs,  led  to  his  nomination,  in  1857,  as  the  Demo 
cratic  candidate  for  Lieutenant-Governor  of  Ohio,  but  the  ticket 
was  defeated  by  a  few  hundred  votes.  In  the  same  year  he 
received  from  Governor  Chase  the  commission  of  Major-General 
of  the  First  Division  of  the  Ohio  Militia. 

The  period  of  Lytle's  greatest  literary  activity  dates  from 
the  time  of  his  return  from  the  Mexican  War  to  the  outbreak 
of  the  Rebellion,  and  it  was  signalized  by  the  production  of  most 
of  his  poems,  including  the  masterful  lyric,  "Antony  and  Cleo 
patra,"  which  brought  its  author  national  fame,  and  which, 
perhaps,  has  served,  more  than  all  his  other  achievements,  either 
of  sword  or  of  pen,  to  keep  Lytle's  name  in  lasting  remem 
brance.  This  poem  was  dashed  off  in  a  glow  of  poetic  inspira 
tion,  at  the  Lytle  homestead,  one  afternoon  in  July,  1858,  and 
was  first  published  on  the  29th  of  that  month,  in  the  Cincinnati 
Commercial. 

The  story  of  Gen.  Lytle's  splendid  career  from  the  day  when 
Fort  Sumter  yielded,  to  the  day  of  his  death  on  the  field  of 
Chickamauga  —  a  period  of  less  than  two  years  and  eight  months 
—  covers  the  events  of  three  principal  campaigns,  each  signal 
ized  by  a  terrible  battle.  He  was  wounded  at  Carnifex  Ferry, 
in  the  conflict  of  September  10,  1861,  and  again  in  the  battle  of 
Perryville,  October  7,  1862.  On  November  27,  of  the  latter 
year,  he  was  promoted  from  the  rank  of  Colonel  to  that  of 
Brigadier-General,  in  which  capacity  he  served  until  his  death, 
which  occurred  on  September  20,  1863,  when  he  received  a  fatal 
shot  while  directing  the  movements  of  his  brigade,  being  the 
only  Union  officer  of  high  rank  who  fell  that  day. 

His  body  was  buried,  with  loving  care,  by  a  Confederate 
officer  who  had  been  a  comrade  of  Lytle  in  Mexico.  After  a 

118 


WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE 

lapse  of  twenty  days  his  remains  were  recovered,  under  a  flag 
of  truce,  and  were  conveyed  to  Cincinnati,  where,  with  solemn 
and  imposing  obsequies,  they  were  consigned  to  a  final  resting- 
place  in  Spring  Grove  Cemetery,  October  22,  1863.  The  Lytle 
monument,  a  shaft  of  Carrara  marble,  erected  near  his  grave, 
shows,  in  symbolic  sculpture,  the  sword,  the  scroll,  the  pen,  and, 
surmounting  all,  the  eagle  sustaining  a  garland  of  laurel.  In 
Chickamauga  Park  there  stands  another  memorial  to  the  "warrior 
poet," —  a  pyramid  of  cannon  balls  piled  upon  a  base  of  granite, 
distinguishing  the  spot  where  the  hero  fell  in  battle. 

ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA 
I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying! 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast; 
Let  thine  arm,  oh  Queen,  enfold  me, 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear, 
Listen  to  the  great  heart  secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore ; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman, 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
'T  was  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him, 

'T  was  his  own  that  struck  the  blow  — 
His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray  — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 
119 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 
Where  the  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, 
Seek  her;  say  the  gods  bear  witness, — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings, — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled, 

Yet  shall  mount  the  thrones  of  kings. 

And  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian  — 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile! 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile; 
Give  the  Caesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine, 
I  can  scorn  the  senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying; 

Hark!  the  insulting  foeman's  cry; 
They  are  coming ;  quick,  my  falchion ! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah,  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell ; 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee, — 

Cleopatra,  Rome,  farewell! 

POPOCATAPETL 

Pale  peak,   afar 

Gilds  thy  white  pinnacle,  a  single  star, 
While  sharply  on  the  deep  blue  sky  thy  snows 

In  death-like  calm  repose. 

The   nightingale 

Through  "Mira  Flores"  bowers  repeats  her  tale, 
And  every  rose  its  perfumed  censer  swings 

With  vesper  offerings. 


120 


WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE 

But  not  for  thee, 

Diademed  king,  this   love-born  minstrelsy, 
Nor  yet  the  tropic  gales  that  gently  blow 

Through  these  blest  vales  below. 

Around  thy  form 

Hover  the  mid-air  fiends,  the  lightning  warm, 
Thunder,  and  by  the  driving  hurricane, 

In  wrecks  thy  pines  are  lain. 

Deep  in  thy  heart 

Burn  on  vast  fires,  struggling  to  rend  apart 
Their  prison  walls,  and  then  in  wrath  be  hurled 

Blazing  upon   the   world. 

In   vain   conspire 

Against  thy  majesty  tempest  and  fire; 
The  elemental  wars  of  madness  born, 

Serene,  thou  laugh'st  to  scorn. 

Calm  art  thou  now 

As  when  the  Aztec,  on  thine  awful  brow, 
Gazed  on  some  eve  like  this  from  Chalco's  shore, 

Where  lives  his  name  no  more. 

And  thou  hast   seen 
Glitter  in  dark  defiles  the  ominous  sheen 
Of  lances,  and  hast  heard  the  battle-cry 

Of  Castile's  chivalry. 

And  yet  again 

Hast  seen  strange  banners  steering  o'er  the  main, 
When  from  his  eyrie  soared  to  conquest  forth 

The  Eagle  of  the  North. 

Yet   at   thy   feet, 

While  rolling  on,  the  tides  of  empire  beat, 
Thou  art,  oh  mountain,  on  thy  world-piled  throne, 

Of  all,  unchanged  alone. 

121 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Type  of   a  power 

Supreme,  thy  solemn  silence  at  this  hour 
Speaks  to  the  nations  of  the  Almighty  Word 

Which  at  thy  birth  was  stirred. 

Prophet  sublime! 

Wide  on  the  morning's  wings  will  float  the  chime 
Of  martial  horns ;  yet  'mid  the  din  thy  spell 

Shall  sway  me  still  —  farewell ! 

MACDONALD'S  DRUMMER  1 

A  drummer-boy  from  fair  Bayonne 

By  love  of  glory  lured, 
With  bold  Macdonald's  stern  array 

The  pains  of  war  endured. 
And  now  amid  those  dizzy  heights 

That  girt  the  Splugen  dread, 
The  silent  columns  struggled  on, 

And  he  marched  at  their  head. 

Then  in  those  regions  cold  and  dim, 

With  endless  winter  cursed, 
The  Alpine  storm  arose  and  scowled 

And  forth  in  fury  burst  — 
Burst  forth  on  the  devoted  ranks, 

Ambition's  dauntless  brood, 
That  thus  with  sword  and  lance  profaned 

Old  Winter's  solitude. 

"Down !  down !  upon  your  faces  fall ; 

Cling  to  the  guns!  for,  lo, 
The  chamois  on  this  slippery  track 

Would  dread  yon  gulf  below!" 
So  speeds  the  word  from  front  to  rear, 

And  veterans  to  the  storm 
Bowed  low,  who  ne'er  in  battle  bowed 

To  aught  in  foeman's  form. 


1  See  Headley's  account  of  the  passage  of  the  Splugen,  by  Marshal  Macdonald. 

122 


WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE 

But  hark !  what  horror  swells  the  gale  — 

Beware,  oh  sons  of  France ! 
Beware  the  avalanche  whose  home 

Is  'mid  these  mountain  haunts. 
Yon  distant  thunder — 'tis  its  voice! 

The  bravest  held  his  breath, 
And  silently  a  prayer  put  up 

To  die  a  soldier's  death. 

And  near  and  nearer  with  a  roar 

That  loud  and  louder  swelled, 
The  avalanche  down  glaciers  broad 

Its  lightning  pathway  held; 
And  through  the  shivering  ranks  it  crashed, 

And  then  with  one  vast  stride 
Swept  down  the  gulf,  till  far  below 

Its  muttering  thunders  died. 

In  vain  Italia's  sunny  plains 

And  reeling  vines  invite ; 
Full  many  a  soldier  found  his  shroud 

'Mid  Alpine  snows  that  night; 
And  he,  his  comrades'  pride  and  boast, 

The  lad  from  fair  Bayonne, 
The  roll  was  called,  no  voice  replied, — 

The  drummer-boy  was  gone. 

Gone!  gone!  but  hark,  from  the  abyss, 

What  sounds  so  faintly  come, 
Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm? 

It  is  —  it  is  — •  the  drum ! 
He  lives,  he  beats  for  aid,  he  sounds 

The  old  familiar  call, 
That  to  the  battery's  smoking  throat 

Had  brought  his  comrades  all. 


123 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Over  the  dizzy  verge  that  eve 

With  straining  eyes  they  peered, 
And  heard  the  rattling  of  the  drum, 

In  echoes  strange  and  weird; 
The  notes  would  cease,  and  then  again 

Would  sound  —  again  to  fail, 
Until  no  more  their  fainting  moan 

Came  wafted  on  the  gale. 

And  when  red  Wagram's  fight  was  fought, 

And  the  big  war  was  o'er, 
A  dark-haired  matron  in  Bayonne 

Stood  watching  by  her  door ; 
Stood  watching,  praying  many  an  hour, 

Till  hair  and  heart  grew  gray, 
For  the  bright-eyed  boy  who,  'mid  the  Alps, 

Was  sleeping  far  away. 

And  still,  belated  peasants  tell 

How,  near  that  Alpine  height, 
They  hear  the  drum-roll  loud  and  clear 

On  many  a  storm-vexed  night. 
This  story  of  the  olden  time 

With  sad  eyes  they  repeat, 
And  whisper  by  whose  ghostly  hands 

The  spirit-drum  is  beat. 

BRIGAND'S  SONG 

Through  the  Sierra's  wild  ravines 

An  old  grandee  of  Spain 
Is  passing  with  his  dark-eyed  girls 

And  all  his  gorgeous  train ; 
The  spoil  is  rich,  the  guard  is  weak, 

The  way  is  rough  and  long, 
So  bathe  your  lips  in  foaming  wine, 

And  chant  your  parting  song. 

124 


WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE 

Drink,  brothers,  drink, 

Drink,  men,  and  away; 
Adieu,  senoras,  in  your  smiles 

We'll  bask  before  the  day. 

The  moon  is  in  the  azure  skies, 

The  stars  are  by  her  side, 
They  glitter  in  her  path  of  light 

Like  maids  around  a  bride; 
Like  night-birds  let  us  sally  forth 

Where  booty  may  be  won; 
So  whet  the  poignard's  polished  edge, 
And  gird  your  carbines  on. 
Arm,  brothers,   arm, 

Arm,  men,  and  away; 
Adieu,  senoras,  in  your  smiles 
We'll  bask  before  the  day. 

All  hail  to-night;  for  since  the  world 

Was  made  in  times  of  old, 
The  day  has  been  for  coward  knaves, 

The  night  time  for  the  bold; 
Hark!  to  the  mule-bells'  distant  chime, 

Our  Lady,  grant  a  boon, 
That  ere  an  hour  the  ring  of  steel 
May  drown  their  jingling  tune. 
Mount,  brothers,  mount, 
Mount,  men,  and  away; 
Adieu,  senoras,  in  your  smiles 
We'll  bask  before  the  day. 

To  horse !    Hurra  — with  thundering  press 

Over  the  plain  we  glide, 
Around  the  startled  hamlet's  edge 

And  up  the  mountain  side; 
With  waving  plumes  and  clanking  spurs, 

We  sweep  along  like  wind; 

125 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Our  beacon  on  the  rugged  cliff 
Is  flaming  far  behind. 
Ride,  brothers,  ride, 

Ride,  men,  and  away; 
Adieu,  sefioras,  in  your  smiles 
We'll  bask  before  the  day. 


ANACREONTIC 

Nay,  frown  not  fairest,  chide  no  more, 

Nor  blame  the  blushing  wine; 
Its  fiery  kiss  is  innocent, 

When  thrills  the  pulse  with  thine. 
So  leave  the  goblet  in  my  hand, 

But  vail  thy  glances  bright, 
Lest  wine  and  beauty  mingling 

Should  wreck  my  soul  to-night. 

Then,  Ida,  to  the  ancient  rim 

In  sculptured  beauty  rare, 
Bow  down  thy  red-arched  lip  and  quaff 

The  wine  that  conquers  care; 
Or  breathe  upon  the  shining  cup 

Till  that  its  perfume  be 
Sweet  as  the  scent  of  orange  groves, 

Upon  some  tropic  sea. 

And  while  thy  fingers  idly  stray 

In  dalliance  o'er  the  lyre, 
Sing  to  me,  love,  some  rare  old  song 

That  gushed  from  heart  of  fire  — 
Song  such  as  Grecian  phalanx  hymned 

When  freedom's  field  was  won, 
And  Persia's  glory  with  the  light 

Faded  at  Marathon. 

126 


WILLIAM  HAINES  LYTLE 

Sing  till  the  shouts  of  armed  men 

Ring  bravely  out  once  more : 
Sing  till  again  the  ghost-white  tents 

Shine  on  the  moon-lit  shore; 
Bid  from  their  melancholy  graves 

The  buried  hopes  to  start, 
I  knew  ere  many  a  storm  had  swept 

The  dew-drops  from  my  heart. 

Sing  the  deep  memories  of  the  past, 

My  soul  shall  follow  thee, 
Its  boundless  depths  re-echoing 

Thy  glorious  minstrelsy; 
And  as  the  wild  vibrations  hang 

Enfettered  on  the  air, 
I'll  drink,  thy  white  arms  round  me,  love, 

The  wine  that  conquers  care. 


IN  CAMP 

I  gazed  forth  from  my  wintry  tent 
Upon  the  star-gemmed  firmament; 
I  heard  the  far-off  sentry's  tramp 
Around  our  mountain-girdled  camp, 
And  saw  the  ghostly  tents  uprise 
Like  specters  'neath  the  jeweled  skies. 
And  thus  upon  the  snow-clad  scene, 
So  pure  and  spotless  and  serene, 
Where  locked  in  sleep  ten  thousand  lay 
Awaiting  morn's  returning  ray, — 
I  gazed,  till  to  the  sun  the  drums 
Rolled  at  the  dawn,  "He  comes,  he  comes." 

BARDSTOWN,  KY.,  1862. 


127 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

"WHEN  THE  LONG  SHADOWS" 

When  the  long  shadows  on  my  path  are  lying, 
Will  those  I  love  be  gathered  at  my  side; 

Clustered  around  my  couch  of  pain,  and  trying 
To  light  the  dark  way,  trod  without  a  guide? 

Shall  it  be  mine,  beyond  the  tossing  billow, 
'Neath  foreign  skies,  to  feel  the  approach  of  death, 

Will  stranger  hands  smooth  down  my  dying  pillow, 
And  watch  with  kindly  heart  my  failing  breath? 

Or  shall,  perchance,  the  little  stars  be  shining 

On  some  lone  spot,  where,  far  from  home  and  friends, 

The  way-worn  pilgrim  on  the  turf  reclining, 
His  life  and  much  of  grief  together  ends? 

Ah !  wheresoe'er  the  closing  scene  may  find  me, 
'Mid  friends  or  foemen  or  in  deserts  lone, 

May  there  be  some  of  those  I  leave  behind  me 
To  shed  a  tear  for  me  when  I  am  gone. 

Full  well  I  know  life's  current,  onward  rushing, 

Sweeps  hearts  away  from  spots  where  they  would  cling, 

And  by  life's  shores  fair  flowers  are  ever  blushing, 
That  o'er  the  waves  a  Lethean  fragrance  fling. 

Yet  when  the  thousand  gales  of  morn  are  blowing, 
Or  when  the  bright  moon  gilds  the  solemn  sea, 

And  the  sweet  stars  their  smiles  on  earth  are  throwing, 
In  the  wide  world,  will  none  remember  me  ? 


128 


COATES  KINNEY 

C  GATES  KINNEY  was  born  November  24,  1826,  at  Kin- 
ney's  Corners,  Yates  County,  N.  Y.,  in  the  picturesque 
region  of  Keeuka  Lake.  His  father,  Giles  Kinney,  sprang 
from  two  old  Connecticut  families,  dating  back  to  the  time  of 
the  landing  of  the  Mayflower  —  the  families  of  Kinney  and 
Coates.  The  poet's  mother,  Myra  (Cornell)  Kinney,  a  native  of 
New  York,  belonged  to  a  branch  of  the  Cornells  who  are  numer 
ous  in  that  State.  In  the  spring  of  1840,  when  the  subject  of 
this  sketch  was  thirteen  years  old,  his  parents  moved  from  New 
York  to  Ohio,  settling  at  Springboro,  Warren  County,  where 
he  attended  the  district  school  and,  later,  a  local  academy, — 
though  his  studies  were  interrupted  by  long  periods  of  manual 
employment,  first  in  a  saw-mill,  next  as  a  cooper's  apprentice, 
and  then  in  a  woolen- factory.  His  eagerness  for  knowledge 
kept  all  his  leisure  hours  engaged  with  intense  though  desultory 
studies  in  algebra,  geometry,  Latin,  Greek,  and  general  litera 
ture.  Kinney  taught  school  at  Ridgeville,  at  Mount  Holly,  and 
in  other  country  districts,  and  also  found  time  to  begin  the  study 
of  law  at  Lebanon,  Ohio,  under  the  auspices  of  the  famous 
"Tom"  Corwin.  Subsequently  he  pursued  his  legal  studies  with 
the  Hon.  William  Lawrence,  of  Bellefontaine,  Ohio,  and  much 
later,  with  Donn  Piatt,  of  Cincinnati. 

His  other  occupations,  however,  did  not  prevent  the  ambi 
tious  youth  from  applying  his  mind  to  literary  composition,  and 
he  was  early  a  contributor  to  newspapers  and  magazines.  While 
living  at  Bellefontaine,  in  the  summer  of  1849,  he  wrote  the 
famous  lyric,  "Rain  on  the  Roof,"  which  first  appeared  in  print 
on  September  22  of  the  same  year,  being  published  by  E.  Pen- 
rose  Jones,  in  the  Great  West,  a  Cincinnati  weekly,  edited  by 
Emerson  Bennett.  This  poem,  which  at  once  became  a  popular 
favorite,  and  which  perhaps  has  been  reproduced  in  type  more 
frequently  than  any  other  lyric  ever  written  in  the  Ohio  Valley, 

129 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

is  deserving  of  special  notice  on  account  of  its  melodious  charm 
and  its  tender  appeal  to  the  home-bred  affections,  and  because 
it  was  the  earliest  of  the  author's  writings  to  attract  general 
attention. 

On  July  17,  1851,  Coates  Kinney  married  Miss  Hannah 
Kelly,  of  Waynesville,  Ohio.  During  the  eight  years  of  struggle 
and  comparative  poverty  in  which  his  young  wife  lived  to  inspire 
him  with  her  sympathetic  cooperation,  he  devoted  his  energies 
to  various  literary  and  educational  effort,  and  to  those  intellec 
tual  pursuits  which  equipped  him  thoroughly  for  the  public 
duties  he  afterwards  discharged  with  distinguished  ability  in 
several  important  stations.  In  this  period  he  wrote  much  for 
the  press,  contributing  poems,  short  stories,  and  critical  essays 
to  the  National  Era,  the  Philadelphia  Post,  the  Yankee  Blade, 
Willis's  Home  Journal,  and  the  Ladies'  Repository.  For  a  time 
he  was  associated  with  Charles  S.  Abbott  and  William  T. 
Coggeshall,  in  Cincinnati,  in  the  editorship  of  the  Genius  of  the 
West.  In  1854  he  purchased  a  half  interest  in  Abbott's  print 
ing  office,  where,  with  his  own  hand,  he  set  up  the  type  of  his 
first  book,  Keeuka  and  Other  Poems,  which  was  issued  from 
the  press,  as  a  private  edition,  in  1855.  Desiring  to  extend  his 
knowledge  of  Greek  and  of  French,  the  young  author,  in  the 
same  year,  went  to  Yellow  Springs,  where  he  took  courses  in 
Antioch  College,  of  which  institution  Horace  Mann  was  at  that 
time  the  President.  Admitted  to  the  bar  in  1856,  Kinney  opened 
an  office  in  the  Debolt  Building,  Cincinnati,  where  he  was  en 
gaged  in  law  practice  for  a  year  or  more,  keeping  his  family  at 
Waynesville.  Shortly  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  which  occurred 
in  1859,  the  poet  was  called  to  take  the  editorship  of  the  Xenia 
News,  a  position  just  vacated  by  Whitelaw  Reid. 

At  the  outbreak  of  the  Civil  War,  Kinney  applied  for  a 
commission,  and,  upon  the  recommendation  of  Secretary  Chase, 
President  Lincoln,  June  1,  1861,  appointed  him  Major  and  Pay 
master,  U.  S.  A.,  in  which  capacity  he  served  until  the  close  of 
the  war,  retiring,  November  14,  1865,  with  the  brevet  rank  of 
Lieutenant-Colonel. 

130 


COATES  KINNEY 

In  the  spring  of  1862  Col.  Kinney  was  married  to  Miss 
Mary  C.  Allen,  of  Xenia,  Ohio,  in  which  city  he  afterwards 
resided  for  many  years,  and  where  his  three  daughters,  Myra, 
Lestra,  and  Clara,  were  born. 

A  trenchant  and  influential  journalist,  Kinney  was  succes 
sively  connected  with  the  West  Liberty  Banner,  the  Xenia  News, 
the  Genius  of  the  West,  the  Xenia  Torch-Light,  the  Cincinnati 
Daily  Times,  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  and  the  Springfield  Globe 
Republic.  In  1868  he  was  a  delegate  from  Ohio  to  the  Repub 
lican  National  Convention  at  Chicago,  which  nominated  Grant 
for  President,  and  he  was  Ohio  Secretary  of  that  convention. 
Elected  in  1881  to  represent  the  Fifth  Ohio  District  in  the  State 
Senate,  he  served  for  one  term  in  that  body,  where  he  took  a 
leading  part  in  legislation,  being  especially  distinguished  for  his 
eloquence,  and  for  strength  and  clearness  in  debate.1 

Coates  Kinney  devoted  the  last  seven  years  of  his  life  chiefly 
to  literary  pursuits,  spending  much  of  his  leisure  in  the  Queen 
City,  where  he  occupied  apartments  first  at  the  Oxford  Hotel 
and  afterwards  at  the  Munro. 

The  poet  died  in  the  Presbyterian  Hospital,  Cincinnati, 
January  24,  1904.  He  was  buried  in  Miami  Cemetery,  Waynes- 
ville,  Ohio,  by  the  side  of  his  first  wife,  and  near  the  little  graves 
of  the  three  children  whom  she  had  borne  to  him  and  who  had 
all  died  in  their  infancy. 

The  poetical  work  of  Coates  Kinney,  thus  far  published,  is 
comprised  in  three  volumes:  Keeuka,  and  Other  Poems  (1855)  ; 
Lyrics  of  the  Ideal  and  Real  (1887)  ;  and  Mists  of  Fire,  a 
Trilogy;  and  Some  Eclogs  (1899).  It  is  impossible  for  the 
reader  of  critical  discernment  to  peruse  these  volumes  without 
recognizing  on  every  page  evidence  of  an  original  genius,  bold 


1  Col.  Kinney  was  recognized  in  the  Senate  and  throughout  the  State  as  a  bold  and 
aggressive  antagonist  of  all  forms  of  public  corruption  and  injustice,  and  as  the  zealous 
champion  of  several  reformatory  measures.  Memorable  on  account  of  its  far-reaching 
influence  in  molding  popular  sentiment  and  in  determining  the  course  of  later  legislation, 
was  his  powerful  speech  on  "The  Official  Railroad  Pass,"  delivered  March  29,  1882,  in 
support  of  a  bill  "to  prohibit  unjust  discrimination  in  favor  of  persons  in  public  employ 
ment  traveling  on  railroads."  The  fundamental  principles  of  this  bill  have  since  been 
embodied  in  the  provisions  of  an  act  passed  by  the  Ohio  legislature,  April  21,  1908. 

131 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

in  thought,  daring  in  imagination,  and  unique  in  the  consum 
mate  mastery  of  song  which  has  for  its  supreme  purpose  not 
merely  art  for  art's  sake,  but  "art  for  the  sake  of  utterance, 
to  the  uttermost."  In  his  special  domain  of  thought  and  poetic 
invention,  Kinney  stands  unrivaled.  The  more  intently  the  deep- 
meaning  cadences  of  his  philosophic  muse  are  studied,  the  more 
clearly  will  they  reveal  those  qualities  of  substance  and  style 
which  demonstrate  the  justice  of  the  opinion  expressed  by  Wil 
liam  Dean  Howells,  that  "Coates  Kinney  is  a  truly  great  poet, 
subtle  and  profound," —  one  of  "the  few  who  think  in  the  elec 
trical  flushes  known  only  to  the  passion  of  most  men,"  and  whose 
work  brings  to  the  reader  "the  thrill  imparted  by  mastery  in  an 
art  which  has  of  late  seemed  declining  into  clever  artistry." 

In  a  review  of  the  author's  second  volume,  Lyrics  of  the 
Ideal  and  the  Real,  Julian  Hawthorne  wrote,  in  1887 :  "These 
lyrics  are  a  genuine  surprise,  and,  to  my  thinking,  are  among 
the  most  powerful  and  original  poems  of  this  generation.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Kinney's  name  is  not  widely  known ;  and  it  is  scarcely  possi 
ble  that  he  has  made  his  living  by  literature.  And  yet  he  has 
the  gifts  of  imagination,  passion,  and  spiritual  insight  that  are 
entrusted  only  to  poets,  and  of  which  the  poetasters  and  versifiers 
of  the  day  possess  no  trace.  His  book  is  profoundly  interesting. 
It  expands  the  brain  and  touches  the  heart.  It  is  genuine  thought 
and  feeling  uttered  with  strength,  beauty,  and  tenderness.  It 
does  not  at  all  resemble  any  contemporary  volume  of  verse.  Its 
forms  are  always  simple,  and  sometimes  rugged  or  harsh.  The 
writer  is  reticent,  and  yet  few  poets  have  so  effectively  com 
municated  their  inmost  souls  to  the  reader  —  if  the  reader 
have  apprehension  to  receive  the  communication.  He  has 
felt  or  sympathized  with  all  the  deeper  human  thoughts  and 
emotions ;  the  story  of  the  longings,  the  regrets,  the  love,  the  fear 
and  hope  of  human  beings  is  reflected  in  these  few  pages.  The 
deep  speculations  of  philosophy,  the  intuitions  of  religion,  the 
homely  pathos  and  tenderness  of  daily  life,  the  charm  of  fancy 
and  the  splendor  of  imaginative  revery,  find  their  echo  here. 
It  is  a  book  to  be  felt  and  acknowledged  rather  than  read.  Its 

132 


C GATES  KINNEY 

prevailing  tone  is  grave  and  sad;  but  there  is  in  it  an  inner 
voice  of  hope  and  consolation.  .  .  .  Whatever  may  be  thought 
of  the  philosophy  of  the  remarkable  poem  Tessim  and  Optim; 
the  largeness  of  its  scope  can  not  be  questioned ;  and  Mr.  Kinney 
has  no  need  to  fear  comparison  with  Tennyson's  'Two  Voices'  on 
the  score  of  originality,  earnestness,  and  depth." 

Coates  Kinney's  most  important  published  work  is  con 
tained  in  the  volume,  Mists  of  Fire,  a  Trilogy;  and  Some 
Eclogs,  issued  in  1899  by  Rand,  McNally  &  Company,  Chicago. 
The  author's  masterpiece,  "Mists  of  Fire,"  an  elaborate  produc 
tion  in  three  parts  entitled,  respectively,  "Kapnisma,"  "Pessim 
and  Optim,"  and  "A  Keen  Swift  Spirit,"  has  for  its  theme  the 
immortal  soul  of  man,  its  origin,  vicissitudes,  exaltations,  des 
pairs,  and  conjectured  destiny.  In  this  great  work,  the  ripe 
fruition  of  the  poet's  genius,  the  whole  gamut  and  diapason  of 
intellectual  life  is  sounded.  Thought  surcharges  every  sentence. 
The  thought  is  usually  calm,  logical,  guided  by  scientific  safe 
guards  ;  but  now  and  again  imagination  kindles  the  philosophic 
facts,  and  the  glowing  pile  mounts  to  the  sky,  a  daring  chariot 
of  fire.  The  prevailing  mood  of  the  poem  is  solemn,  devout, 
religious,  rising  at  times  to  the  high  seriousness  of  oracular  utter 
ance.  Unique  in  design  and  in  poetic  method,  "Mists  of  Fire" 
is,  in  fact,  the  autobiography  of  a  prophetic  nature,  the  thought 
and  feeling  of  a  profound  and  speculative  soul,  who,  like  Words 
worth,  Tennyson,  and  Browning,  seeks  to  embody  in  adventurous 
song  a  new  gospel  of  freedom  and  of  faith,  which  shall  recon 
cile  the  postulates  of  science  with  the  intuitions  of  religion. 

Shortly  before  his  death  Coates  Kinney  entrusted  to  the 
keeping  of  an  intimate  friend  unpublished  literary  property  in 
cluding:  a  novel  entitled  "A  Drama  of  Doubles;"  a  philosophi 
cal  essay  entitled  "Unthinkable  Data  of  Human  Thought;"  a 
short  treatise  on  "Grammar;"  an  essay  on  "The  English  Lan 
guage  and  Its  Correct  Use ;"  a  long  poem  entitled  "Apparitions ;" 
and  several  lyrics  of  extraordinary  beauty  and  power,  written 
within  the  years  1903-04. 


133 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

MISTS  OF  FIRE 

A  TRILOGY 
(Extracts) 


There  is  no  glory  worth  a  moment's  thought 
Save  that  which  links  the  memory  of  a  man 

To  some  fair  order  out  of  chaos  wrought 
By  him  creating  on  creation's  plan. 

His  work  it  is  that  lifts  the  human  life : 

While  others  lead  by  law's  and  battle's  might 

He  rises  into  calm  above  the  strife 

And  sets  new  guiding-stars  along  the  night. 

Though  to  the  vision  of  his  time  and  race 
Be  only  darkness  where  his  far  thoughts  fly, 

Yet,  looking  through  himself,  he  well  may  trace 
The  constellation  men  shall  know  him  by. 


ONEIRODE 

To  think!  to  think  and  never  rest  from  thinking! 

To  feel  this  great  globe  flying  through  the  sky 
And  reckon  by  the  rising  and  the  sinking 

Of  stars  how  long  to  live,  how  soon  to  die ! 

This,  this  is  life.    Is  life,  then,  worth  the  living? 

This  plotting  for  his  freedom  by  the  slave! 
This  agony  of  loving  and  forgiving! 

This  effort  of  the  coward  to  be  brave! 

Our  freedom !    We  are  sin-scourged  into  being, 
And  ills  of  birth  enslave  us  all  our  days ; 

No  chance  of  flying  and  no  way  of  fleeing, 
Until  the  last  chance  and  the  end  of  ways. 


134 


COATES  KINNEY 

We  are  walled  in  by  darkness  —  wall  behind  us, 

From  whose  sprung  dungeon-gates  Fate  dragged  us  in, 

And  wall  before  us,  where  Fate  waits  to  bind  us 
And  thrust  us  out  through  swinging  gates  of  sin. 

But  what  is  Fate?    It  is  a  mere  breath  spoken, 

To  echo  clamoring  between  the  walls 
Of  darkness  —  blind  phrase  uttered  to  betoken 

This  blind  Unreason  which  our  life  enthralls. 

Out  through  abysmal  depths  of  heaven  around  us 
We  think  our  way  past  orbs  of  day  and  night, 

Till  skies  of  empty  outer  darkness  bound  us 
And  place  and  time  are  fixed  pin-points  of  light; 

But  nowhere  from  the  silent  planets  wheeling; 

And  nowhere  from  the  thundering  hells  of  suns, 
And  nowhere  from  the  darkness  comes  revealing 

Itself  a  Fate  that  through  all  being  runs. 

No  ghostly  presence,  no  mysterious  voices, 
The  midnight  of  these  infinite  spaces  thrill ; 

And  even  Chaos  flies  hence  and  rejoices 
To  find  and  feel  yon  Universe's  Will. 

Thought  follows  chaos  —  nay,  without  the  places 
And  times  of  matter  globed  and  motion  whirled, 

Thought  chaos  is,  a  spread  dead  wing  in  space  is, 
Drifting  for  wafture  somewhere  toward  a  world. 

Where  shall  it  reach  and  touch  the  Will  Universal? 

How  with  its  confines  bound  the  Infinite  Mind? 
One  atom  of  the  Allsoul's   whole  dispersal 

Assuming  how  the  whole  shall  be  defined ! 

Such  thinkings  are  not  Thought;  they  are  but  dreamings 
Of  what  perchance  may  be  itself  but  dream: 

Our  truths  are  to  the  Truth  as  moonlight's  gleamings 
In  dungeon  are  to  open  noonday's  beam. 

135 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

All  worlds  of  matter,  all  the  world  of  spirit, 
How  these  are  one,  eternal,  increate  — 

Soul  can  not  clutch  it,  sense  come  never  near  it; 
It  is  unthinkable,  and  it  is  Fate ! 

This  awful  riddle,  wherewith  we  have  struggled 
Since  the  dim  dawn  of  human  consciousness, 

With  whatsoever  dread  words  we  have  juggled  — 
Ptah,  Zeus,  Jove,  God  —  we  fail,  we  fail  to  guess. 

Whether  there  be  of  all  intelligences 
A  total  Sum,  a  comprehending  Whole  — 

Great  sea,  wherefrom  rise  all  these  mists,  the  senses, 
And  back  whereto  flow  all  the  streams  of  soul? 

Whether  this  lives  a  selfexistent  Essence, 
With  its  own  passions,  wills,  imaginings, 

Or  is  but  everlasting  evanescence, 

But  perfume  of  the  bloom  of  living  things  ? 

How  cosmic  spirit  can  take  hold  of  matter 
And  give  dead  elements  the  living  breath? 

How  gather  into  selfhoods,  and  how  scatter, 
To  work  the  miracles  of  life  and  death? 

Poets  in  grand  imagination's  trances 

Conceive  the  gods  and  give  them  wondrous  birth, 
And  martyrs  bleed  for  faith's  divine  romances, 

And  priests  go  forth  to  proselyte  the  earth; 

But  what  terrestrial  religion  reaches 

Out  into  heavenly  majesty  so  far 
That  it  may  guess  what  god  strange  nature  teaches 

To  the  strange  dwellers  on  the  nearest  star? 

Is  Buddha  known  to  denizens  of  Saturn? 

Is  Jesus  preached  upon  the  Jovian  moons  ? 
And  what  are  gods  of  any  earthly  pattern 

To  far  spheres  drifting  in  the  Force-monsoons? 

136 


C DATES  KINNEY 

Yon  sun's  flame,  in  whose  light  our  worlds  go  darkling 
To  eyes  that  from  another  system  gaze  — 

Yon  flaming  sun  is  but  a  glimmer  sparkling 
To  like  worlds  blotted  in  the  Dogstar's  blaze. 

And,  howsoever  gravitation  labors, 
It  lets  a  million  suns  from  vision  slip; 

While  the  ten  million  systems  are  not  neighbors 
Even  by  light's  fine  far  swift  fellowship. 

How  these  immensities  dwarf  and  obscure  us ! 

What,  what  are  we  amid  such  scenes  as  these? 
Our  Earth  unguessed  in  planets  of  Arcturus, 

Undreamed  in  orbs  around  the  Pleiades! 

By  such  infinitudes  of  distance  bounded 

(These  chasms  of  darkness  that  no  light  can  leap !) 

We  seem  a  dream  with  glooms  of  sleep  surrounded  — 
Our  life  a  dream  surrounded  with  a  sleep ! 


ANTONEIRODE 

Ay,  we  are  dreamed;  and  if  ever  the  Dreamer 
Wake  from  the  sleep  to  remember  the  dream, 

We  of  His  waking  shall  thrill  in  the  tremor, 
Dawn  with  His  memory,  mingle  and  stream. 

What  though  He  slumber  through  eon  on  eon? 

When  He  has  dreamed  all  the  infinite  full, 
Dreamed  all  the  worlds  and  the  lives  there  to  be  on, 

Out  to  dreamed  gravity's  uttermost  pull; 

Dreamed  forth  of  matter  and  force  interblended 
(Storm-drifts  of  matter  and  torrents  of  force) 

Cyclones  of  flame,  globed,  exploded,  and  rended  — 
Wide  wild  beginnings  of  Time's  endless  course ; 

137 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Dreamed  out  of  chaos  the  suns  in  the  spaces, 

Dreamed  down  the  suns  to  their  white  molten  cores, 

Dreamed  off  the  worlds  in  their  systemal  places, 
Over  them  dreaming  the  continent-floors 

Out  of  their  pulps  of  fire  —  dreaming  the  oceans 
Out  of  the  rain  from  their  heavens  of  steam, 

And  of  their  mad  elemental  commotions 
Molding  the  motions  of  life  in  His  dream; 

Dreaming  the  marvelous  atoms  together 

Into  the  miracles  feeling  and  thought, 
Hitching,  with  matter's  mysterious  tether, 

Selfhoods  of  sense  to  insensible  naught; 

Dreaming  the  span  of  the  measureless  chasm 
Yawning  between  the  alive  and  the  dead  — 

Wonder  of  dreams  in  the  organless  plasm 
Crawling  to  soul  from  the  sea's  oozy  bed  — 

Feeling  to  soul  in  the  sea's  vital  foment, 

Feeling  to  form  and  to  faculties  dim, 
Till,  at  the  touch  of  a  consummate  moment, 

Loosed  into  freedom  to  rise  and  to  swim  — 

Swimming  of  dreams  in  the  nightmare  of  waters ! 

Hydras,  chimeras,  and  gorgons  of  sleep, 
That  by  transitions  of  mutual  slaughters 

Play  the  dream-tragedy  Life  in  the  deep; 

When  His  long  dream  through  the  spawning  and  swarming 

Sea-generations  has  passed  into  things 
Creeping  aland,  and  has  risen  transforming 

Into  the  slow  apparition  of  wings ; 

When  from  the  budding  of  nerves  in  the  banded 
Spirals  of  earth-crawling  pleasure  and  pain 

Upward  has  issued  His  dream  and  expanded 
Into  the  glorified  blooming  of  brain  — 

138 


COATES  KINNEY 

Flower  of  all  the  world's  forces  and  ages, 
Top-bloom  of  matter  exhaling  the   soul, 

Opening  volume  whose  unopened  pages 
Yet  of  God's  being  shall  utter  the  whole, — 

Here  from  His  dream  shall  He  start  into  waking  — 
Dream  of  the  universe  waking  in  Me  — 

Me  as  a  shore  where  the  great  billows  breaking 
Leap  out  of  silence  in  sounds  of  the  sea! 

Here,  in  the  self  of  Me,  here  wakes  the  Dreamer, 
Wakes  and  shall  wake  as  the  brain  shall  unfold; 

Here  is  the  Christ  of  God,  here  the  Redeemer, 
Spirit  incarnate  that  Faith  has  foretold. 

Growth  of  the  brain  shall  be  God  manifested 
Here  in  the  flesh,  when  the  dead  shall  arise, 

By  an  inherited  memory  vested 

With  the  immortal  life  dreamed  of  the  skies. 

What  so  has  ever  with  being  been  gifted, 
Since  the  first  givings  of  being  began, 

Living  again  shall  be  gathered  and  lifted 
Into  the  Sovereign  Consciousness,  Man. 


TO  AN  OLD  APPLETREE 

This  grim  old  appletree  which  many  a  May 

Has  greened  between  my  window  and  the  morn 

Seems  to  me  thinking  now  in  every  spray 
A  thought  that  is  to  be  a  blossom  born. 

Those  maimed  limbs  plead  thy  story; 

The  wounds  upon  thy  body  speak  for  thee: 
Thou  art  a  veteran  soldier  scarred  with  glory, 

My  brave  old  Appletree! 

139 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Oft  hast  thou  borne  up  under 

Onset  of  storming  wind  and  shot  of  hail; 
And  once  a  sword-lunge  of  assailant  thunder 

Slashed  down  thy  barken  mail. 

Old  age,  disease,  and  battle 

Have  scathed  and  crooked  and  crippled  all  thy  form, 
And  thy  Briarean  bare  arms  clash  and  rattle 

Tossed  in  the  wintry  storm. 

I  seem  to  feel  thee  shiver, 

As  on  thy  nakedness  hang  rags  of  snow: 
May  charitable  Spring,  the  gracious  giver, 

O'er  thee  her  mantle  throw. 

She  will;  and  sunshine  spilling 

From  blue  skies  thou  again  shalt  drink  as  wine, 
To  feel  afresh  the  rush  of  young  blood  thrilling 

Through  that  old  heart  of  thine. 

For  in  the  season  duly 

Each  year  there  rises  youth's  perennial  power 
Within  thee,  and  thou  then  rejoicest  newly 

In  robes  of  leaf  and  flower. 

Ay,  though  thy  years  are  many 

And  sorrows  heavy,  yet  from  winter's  gloom 
Thou  issuest  with  the  young  trees,  glad  as  any, 

As  quick  of  green  and  bloom. 

The  bluebird,  warbling  -mellow 

Refrains,  like  memory  comes  and  calls  thy  name; 
And  like  first  love,  the  oriole's  pomp  of  yellow 

Flits  through  thy  shade  a  flame. 

Thou  quiverst  in  the  sunny 

June  mornings  to  the  welcoming  of  song, 
And  bees  about  their  business  of  the  honey 

Whisper  thee  all  day  long. 

140 


COATES  KINNEY 

Thus  thou  art  blest  and  blessest  — 

Thy  grace  of  blossoms  fruiting  into  gold ; 

And  thus  in  touch  with  nature,  thou  possessest 
The  art  of  growing  old. 


MISCELLANEOUS   EXTRACTS 

It  is  my  faith  that  man  shall  yet  receive 

Even  through  the  pains  of  sin  and  pangs  of  birth 
And  throes  of  death,  the  virtue  to  achieve 

The  deed  of  immortality  on  earth. 

Though  this  poor  body  shall  not  witness  it, 
The  tree  of  life,  which  has  eternal  growth 

By  evolution  that  is  infinite, 

Must  sometime  come  to  amaranthine  blowth. 

And  this  my  soul,  though  held  long  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  slow  growth's  expansion,  shall  not  sink, 

But,  flushing  upward,  through  that  final  bloom 
Shall  taste  the  skies  and  wines  of  sunlight  drink. 

But,  ah,  the  gloom!  this  darkness  which  shall  yawn 
Between  my  day  of  life  now  soon  to  close 

And  that  unspeakably  far  future  dawn 

Which  I  must  wait  for  in  the  dread  repose ! 

The  horror  of  it  who  is  there  that  scapes 
In  age  ?  —  sun  setting,  death's  Pacific  deep 

Stretching  out  skyward  from  the  western  capes, 
And  on  the  beach  his  little  boat  of  sleep ! 


'There  is  no  God' —  the  flippant  fool's  old  saying, 
The  blinkard's  logic,  or  the  coward's  curse ! 

What,  then,  this  procreant  Life-Force  intraplaying 
Throughout   the   matter   of   the   universe? 


141 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

I  Am!     The  Hebrew  seer's  clairvoyant  seeing 
Flashed  to  the  depths  in  that  one  fulgent  phrase 

I  Am  —  the  Consciousness !     I  Am  —  the  Being ! 
Whatever  comes   or  goes,   I   Am  —  that   stays ! 

I  Am  —  in  all  things !  and  whenever,  thinking, 
Mind  so  forth-stars  its  being  as  to  find 

Its  own  form  I-am,  then  begins  it  drinking 
The  influx  of  the  Omni splendent  Mind. 


O  selfish  soul  of  me !  the  thought  thou  knowst 
As  duty  to  the  neighbor  shall  be  warmed 

With  the  quick  comfort  of  the  Holy  Ghost, 

And  heaven  shall  catch  thee  in  the  good  performed. 

But  what  is  good  ?  —  grand  question  that  has  tasked 
All  time's  best  wisdom,  and  yet  rests  involved 

With  'What  is  truth?'  the  question  Pilate  asked 
Of  Jesus,  nor  without  it  shall  be  solved. 

Jesus  was  silent;  let  the  Roman  law 

Declare  his  answer  from  the  Roman  cross  — 

And  ruled  Rome,  though  his  dying  vision  saw 
Round  him  the  Caesar's  brazen  eagles  toss. 

His  good  was  life  that  all  men's  hearts  applaud, 
His  truth  was  innocence'  victorious  death: 

In  three  days  both  arose  and  walked  abroad, 
To  fill  Rome  and  the  world  with  Nazareth. 


But  what  is  goodness?     Is  it  selfishness? 

How  vainly  questioned !     Duty  understood 
Waits  outdoors  in  the  snow  and  under  stress 

Of  winds  of  winter,  and  I  dream  it  good. 

142 


C DATES  KINNEY 

Again  here,  in  my  fire's  caressing  hold, 
To  watch  my  fancies  as  in  smoke  they  float 

About  my  chamber's  mellow  glow  of  gold 

Or  stop  and  swirl,  sucked  up  the  chimney's  throat. 

Too  precious  in  the  brain  my  life  has  grown ; 

And  the  left  moments  of  it  look  so  scarce  and  small 
That  I  no  more  can  bear  to  see  them  sown 

Like  §eed  afield,  lest  they  unfertile  fall. 

But  who  would  save  his  life  shall  lose  it!     Yea, 
I  know  —  the  treasure  that  is  buried  gives 

No  increase  —  and  I  know  there  conies  a  day 
When  each  shall  answer  for  the  life  he  lives. 

Yet  so  I  love  my  world  —  this  world  of  thought, 
This  business  of  my  dreams,  this  drowse  in  books 

Over  the  lore  of  life  the  dead  have  taught  — 

That  all  my  selfhood  shrinks  from  outward  looks. 

My  selfhood,  ay  and  selfishness,  it  is  — 
The  German  Goethe's  yearning  to  absorb 

More  life,  without  that  Sungod's-thirst  of  his 
To  drain  the  light  from  every  starry  orb. 

The  egotism  of  culture  was  his  cult  — 

Worship  of  self  with  others'  sacrifice 
And  can  it  be  that  such  supreme  result 

Commends  the  priest  through  whom  the  victim  dies? 

From  Jesus  down  to  Goethe  —  down  or  up!  — 
Between  the  thought  Semitic  and  the  Greek, 

The  soul  asks,  shall  compassion  drink  the  cup, 
Or  passion  pour  it  for  the  lowly  weak? 


143 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

It  was  my  grandsire  reaching  from  his  grave 
That  pulled  me  back  to  darkness  when  I  willed 

An  utterance  of  light  and  was  not  brave 

Enough  to  word  the  thought  with  which  I  thrilled. 

A  million  voices  from  ancestral  tombs, 
A  million  forces  round  me  in  the  air, 

Control  my  nature,  and  a  million  looms 

Have  woven  this  life- vesture  which  I  wear. 

I  am  obedient  to  all  the  powers 

Of  universal  being;  for  I  go 
Back  to  its  roots,  as  forward  to  its  flowers 

I  shall,  through  all  its  bole  and  branches,  grow. 


The  Oriental  fancy,  in  its  dream, 

Nirvana,  whereinto  the  souls  ascend, 
Lets  Lethe  through  their  selfhoods  flow  and  stream 

To  cleanse  them  of  beginning  as  of  end. 

That  tenet  of  the  Hindoo  wisdom  feels 
Toward  the  unutterable  truth :  the  peace 

Of  God,  round  which  the  Western  reason  reels, 
Is  the  All-Self,  wherein  all  selves  shall  cease. 


As  years  increase,  the  wont  of  solitude 
Wins  on  the  thinker  —  portals  ear  and  eye 

Shutting  against  the  world,  to  interclude 

The  common  show  and  noise  we  know  it  by. 

Pity  for  age  when  it  grows  garrulous 
With  memories  of  the  dead,  and  in  eclipse 

Of  intellect  gropes  'miserably  thus 

To  seek  old  friends  in  new  companionships. 


144 


COATES  KINNEY 

Rather  smoke  so  alone  amid  the  leaves 

Here  where  the  moonshine  flickers  on  the  grass, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  old  remembered  eves 
Like  yonder  westering  star-streams  overpass. 

CONSUMMATION 

(Extract) 

Death  had  sunk  the  world  from  under  my  feet; 

Love  had  given  thee  wings  to  fly ; 
And  we  met  as  the  dawn  and  the  darkness  meet  — 

Thou  the  dawn,  and  the  darkness  I. 

My  soul  was  a  gloom  that  had  blotted  heaven; 

And  thine  was  a  fine  ascending  fire 
That  streamed  it  through  with  a  luminous  leaven 

Of  hope  of  morning  and  day's  desire. 

Love  wrought  the  miracle  of  raising  the  dead ; 

Though  on  the  tomb  the  seal  had  been  put, 
Thine  eyes  to  my  buried  passion  said, 

'Come  forth !'  and  it  came,  bound  hand  and  foot. 

Sad  memory  drowned  itself  in  those  eyes  — 
Fell  into  their  liquid  deeps  and  sunk ; 

And  the  darkness  of  all  the  earth  and  skies 
To  those  two  crystals  of  darkness  shrunk. 

When  we  'met  our  fate  —  rememberst  the  place  ? 

My  day  was  barren,  my  dream  was  done; 
But  the  bright  warm  flush  of  thy  radiant  face 

On  my  frozen  heart  flamed  like  a  sun. 

That  look!  it  created  the  world  anew: 
Thy  presence  came  to  me  like  the  sweep 

Of  a  full  white  sail  to  the  sudden  view 
Of  a  shipwrecked  man  on  the  deep. 

145 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

I  knew  I  was  saved ;  I  knew  that  thy  voice 
Should  sing  the  cries  in  the  night  to  peace  ; 

But  I  felt  it  almost  a  guilt  to  rejoice 

That  love  from  the  dead  had  love's  release. 

Thou  hadst  never  suffered,  and  couldst  not  know 
How  past  and  present  in  me  were  whirled  — 

How  the  breeze  out  of  sunrise  semed  to  blow 
From  the  sundown  of  the  underworld. 


"DID  I  NOT  REALIZE" 

Did  I  not  realize,  as  you  do  now 

By  your  straight  speed  east  on  it  these  four  days, 

How  vast  the  world  is,  I  should  dread  the  haze 
Which  glooms  this  morning ;  but  your  vessel's  prow 

May  point  to  clear  sun,  and  its  forenoon-blaze 
May  pour  your  sea-floored  sky-tent  full  of  gold : 

So  there  for  you  were  youth  and  Orient, 
While  west  the  sad  sky  mists,  and  I  am  old. 

I  dream  it  so ;  but  dreams  do  not  content ; 
For  in  my  thought,  clouds  darken,  great  winds  rise, 

And  billows  toss  you,  and  I  long  to  stand 
Beside  you  there,  and  hold  you  in  my  eyes, 

And  cling  to  you  with  father's  heart  and  hand, 

Dear  mariners  a  thousand  miles  from  land! 
XENIA,  5  October,  1890. 

SHIPS  COMING  IN 

I  lay  upon  a  rock  that  jutted  to  the  sea. 

Twilight  came  down  from  out  the  pine-woods  back  of  me, 

And,  stealing  on  the  waters,  met  the  sudden  moon, 

Rushed  into  her  kiss,  and  sank  to  a  dead  white  swoon. 

I  lay  there  on  the  rock  and  thought  of  all  had  been, 

I  lay  and  watched  my  ships  come,  my  ships  come  in. 

146 


COATES  KINNEY 

Sail,  O  ships !  my  home-voyaging  ships  ! 
Sail  from  the  sunlit  side  of  the  world ; 

Climb  the  watery  bulge  of  the  globe; 
Pass  the  line  where  the  orient  dips 
In  the  sea,  and,  with  canvas  unfurled, 

Take  yon  moon's  glory  on  as  a  robe: 
From  wherever  your  sailing  has  been, 
Sail,  ships,  hither,  sail  hither,  sail  in. 

Ship !  that  flew  out  of  port  with  thy  wings 
Dipt  in  morning,  is  yon  phantom  thou  — 

Moonlit  phantom  that  drifts  to  the  strand 
And  no  freight  and  no  passenger  brings  ? 
Yet  see !  one  there  alive  on  the  prow, 

In  his  gaze  the  sick  hunger  for  land : 
Hope !  my  Captain !  that  sailed  out  to  win 
All  our  world  —  conquered  Captain,  sail  in. 

Ship !  that  pushed  to  the  tropical  zone, 
Touched  spice-islands  in  summery  seas, 

Then,  in  mad  equatorial  gales, 
Went  adrift  with  one  mariner  lone  — 

Bring  him  back  from  the  sunned  Caribbees, 

Bring  him  in  with  thy  storm-tattered  sails : 
Love !  my  Sailor !  once  life's  happy  twin, 
Now  sweet  ghost  of  life,  specter !  sail  in. 

Ship !  that  steered  for  the  boreal  stars, 
And,  bewitched  by  the  weird  northern-lights, 

Cramped  through  ice-packs  and  wintered  in  snows 
Heaped  to  the  deck  and  piled  to  the  spars, 

Thou  hast  brought  from  the  long  arctic  nights 

Only  one,  and  him  famished  and  froze : 
Fame!  my  Helmsman!   Anatomy  thin 
Propt  to  the  wheel,  stark  Helmsman,  sail  in. 

147 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Ship !  that  went  out  to  traffic  with  Ind, 
Hugged  the  Gold  Coast,  and  doubled  Good  Hope, 

When  full  sail  on  the  Asian  sea, 
Thou  wast  caught  by  a  contrary  wind 

And  blown  down  the  world's  southerly  slope 

And  thence  upward  and  hither  to  me : 
Ship,  whose  lading  did  never  begin, 
With  this  moonshine  for  cargo !  sail  in. 

Ship!  that  searched  round  the  world  for  new  lands, 
Sounded  new  seas  and  charted  new  skies, 
Studied  new  stars,  new  sights  of  the  sun, 
Then  plowed  keel  in  the  ooze  and  the  sands  — 
There  in  shallows  thy  mastery  lies, 

When  all  the  deeps  thy  sailing  has  done: 
Psyche  wove  but  the  Parcae  did  spin 
Warp  and  woof  of  thy  sail  sailing  in. 

Ship !  that  struck  the  horizon's  sea-line 
And  there  vanished  away  in  the  blue, 

Seemed  that  thy  sail  went  into  the  sky, 
And  not  down  the  east  ocean's  decline : 
Is  naught,  then,  but  the  underworld  true, 
And  yon  overworld  naught  but  a  lie? 
Faith !  my  Anchor !  all  rusted  with  sin, 
There  on  deck  of  this  ship  sailing  in ! 

CHILD  LOST 

She  came  the  sweet  fulfillment  of  a  dream ; 

She  bloomed  upon  me  like  a  flower ; 

Her  life  was  my  life's  gift  and  dower, 
Her  love  was  my  love's  meed  supreme. 

j 

She  seemed  a  precious  memory  of  mine 
Waked  from  the  holiness  of  death 
And  quickened  back  to  pulse  and  breath 

By  working  of  love's  miracle  divine. 

148 


COATES  KINNEY 

I  took  her  babehood  as  a  gift  of  God ; 

And  when  her  tiny  toddling  feet 

Began  my  coming-home  to  meet, 
My  heart  lay  under  every  step  she  trod. 

Her  life  was  light  to  me  where  night  had  been ; 
It  was  herself  she  heralded 
When  from  her  little  crib  she  said 

Each  morning,  "Papa,  light  is  coming  in." 

She  was  a  newness  and  a  solace  deep  — 
A  newness  like  the  dawning  light, 
A  solace  like  the  lulling  night, 

A  joy  like  waking,  and  a  bliss  like  sleep. 

Her  being  was  around  me  as  a  sky 

Of  summer  is  around  the  earth : 

I  never  thought  of  any  worth 
Of  life  without  her  love  to  price  it  by. 

But  suddenly  I  missed  the  child  one  day; 

I  looked,  and  lo  a  stranger  stood 

There  stately  in  full  womanhood 
Where  I  had  left  the  little  maid  at  play. 


'EGYPT' 1 

Nile  in  far  source  of  it, 
Nile  in  flood- force  of  it; 
Eyes  of  the  lynx, 
Eyes  of  the  sphinx 
(Future  and  history)  ; 
Isis,  the  mystery, 
'Egypt/  my  Gypsy. 


This  poem  now  for  the  first  time  appears  in  print. 

149 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Pyramids  loom  in  her, 
Blast  of  simoom  in  her; 
Sand-storms  and  calms, 
Shade  of  green  palms ; 
Now  blaze  of  noon  to  me, 
Then  stars  and  moon  to  me, 
Gypsy,  my  Gypsy. 

What  may  seem  base  of  her, 
That  is  the  race  of  her; 
Cataracts'  flood 
Swirls  in  her  blood  — 
Thrills  and  revives  in  her 
Old  Egypt's  lives  in  her, 
Gypsy,  my  Gypsy. 

Wild  as  a  leopardess, 
Mild  as  a  shepherdess 
Leading  a  lamb  — 
Lamb  that  I  am!  — 
Mild,  wild  and  beautiful, 
Obstinate,   dutiful, 
Gypsy,  my  Gypsy. 

Mothers  me,  brothers  me, 
Comrades  me,  others  me, 
Counters  me,  mates, 
Loves  me,  and  hates ; 
She  is  the  test  of  me, 
She  is  the  best  of  me, 
She  is  the  zest  of  me, 
She  is  the  pest  of  me, 

And  —  all  the  rest  of  me ! 
'Egypt,'  my  Gypsy. 

1903. 


150 


COATES  KINNEY 

RAIN  ON  THE  ROOF 

When  the  hovering  humid  darkness 

Over  all  the   starry   spheres 
Flows  and  falls  like  sorrow  softly 

Breaking  into  blessed  tears, 
Then  how  sweet  to  press  the  pillow 

Of  a  cottage-chamber  bed 
And  lie  listening  to  the  rain-drops 

On  the  low  roof  overhead. 

To  the  pitpat  on  the  shingles 

Answer  echoes  in  the  heart; 
And  dim  dreamy  recollections 

Into  form  and  being  start, 
And  the  busy  fairy,  Fancy, 

Weaves  her  air-threads,  warp  and  woof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  light  rain  on  the  roof. 

Now  in  memory  comes  my  mother 

As  she  used  in  summers  gone, 
Taking  leave  of  little  faces 

That  her  loving  look  shone  on; 
And  I  feel  that  fond  look  on  me 

As  I  feel  the  old  refrain 
Here  repeated  on  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Then  my  little  seraph-sister, 

With  the  wings  and  waving  hair 
And  her  star-eyed  cherub-brother  — 

A  serene  angelic  pair  — 
Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow 

With  sweet  praise  or  mild  reproof, 
As  I  shut  my  eyes  and  listen 

To  the  soft  rain  on  the  roof. 

151 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

And  another  comes,  to  thrill  me 

With  her  eyes'  bewitching  blue, 
And  I  mind  not,  musing  on  her, 

That  my  heart  she  never  knew ; 
I  remember  but  to  love  her 

With  a  passion  kin  to  pain, 
And  my  quickened  pulses  quiver 

To  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

Art  hath  naught  of  tone  or  cadence, 

Naught  of  music's  magic  spell, 
That  can  thrill  the  secret  fountain 

Whence  the  tears  of  rapture  well, 
Like  that  weird  nocturne  of  Nature, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

1849.  1899. 


152 


FLORUS  BEARDSLEY  PLIMPTON 

FLORUS  BEARDSLEY  PLIMPTON,  journalist  and  poet, 
the  third  son  of  Rev.  Billings  O.  and  Eliza  (Merwin) 
Plimpton,  was  born  in  Elmira,  Portage  County,  Ohio, 
September  4,  1830.  He  received  a  common  school  and  academic 
education,  remaining  on  his  father's  farm  in  Hartford,  Trum- 
bull  County,  Ohio,  till  seventeen  years  of  age,  when  he  entered 
Allegheny  College,  Meadville,  Pa.  In  1851  he  began  his  career 
as  a  newspaper-man,  in  the  office  of  the  Western  Reserve  Tran 
script,  at  Warren,  Ohio,  and  in  the  summer  of  1852  he  became 
editor  of  a  Whig  campaign  paper  at  Niles,  Mich.  Later  he  was 
associated  with  John  S.  Herrick,  at  Ravenna,  Ohio,  in  conducting 
the  Portage  Whig.  Mr.  Plimpton  was  married  June  2, 1853,  to  Miss 
Cordelia  A.  Bushnell,  of  Hartford,  Ohio,  and  in  the  following 
spring  he  moved  to  Elmira,  N.  Y.,  where  he  was  engaged  in  the 
•management  of  the  Elmira  Daily  Republic  until  the  spring  of 
1857,  when  he  went  to  Pittsburg,  Pa.,  in  which  city  he  took  a 
position  on  the  staff  of  the  Pittsburg  Daily  Dispatch.  In  1860, 
at  the  solicitation  of  M.  D.  Potter,  proprietor  of  the  Cincin 
nati  Daily  Commercial,  he  removed  to  Cincinnati  to  assist  in 
the  editorship  of  that  newspaper,  with  which,  and  its  successor, 
the  Commercial-Gazette,  he  was  connected  during  the  remainder 
of  his  life,  in  constant  association  with  the  eminent  journalist, 
Murat  Halstead.  Mr.  Plimpton  died  in  Cincinnati,  April  23, 
1886.  His  body  was  cremated  in  Washington,  Pa. 

"The  time  of  the  work  of  Mr.  Plimpton  on  the  Cincinnati 
Commercial  and  the  Commercial  Gazette,"  to  quote  the  words 
of  Mr.  Halstead,  "was  just  about  twenty-five  years.  He  was  well 
trained  before  he  came,  in  North-eastern  Ohio,  in  Elmira,  New 
York,  and  in  Pittsburg.  His  labors  in  Cincinnati  extended  over 
the  most  interesting  period  of  the  history  of  our  country,  and 

153 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

were  addressed  to  the  enlightenment  of  our  constituency  on  a 
vast  variety  of  subjects.  Volumes  of  his  writings  might  be 
selected  from  the  files  which  form  for  each  old  established  paper 
a  library  of  its  own;  and  there  are  veins  of  gold,  that  the  his 
torians  who  turn  over  the  ample  leaves  upon  which  he  wrote, 
will  have  need  to  appropriate  for  the  fine  metal  of  the  coin  of 
truth  that  is  to  circulate  through  the  generations  that  will  not, 
and  indeed  could  not,  search  for  themselves  into  the  mass  of 
newspaper  literature." 

Besides  being  a  master  of  elegant  and  incisive  prose,  Mr. 
Plimpton  was  gifted  to  no  small  degree  with  that  "vision  and 
faculty  divine"  which  distinguishes  the  poet  born.  "To  devote 
himself  to  poetry,"  wrote  J.  W.  Miller,  his  friend  and  fellow  - 
journalist,  "would  doubtless  have  been  the  ideal  life  for  him. 
There  was  about  him  at  times  a  poetic  abstraction  that  his  asso 
ciates  understood,  and  often,  after  the  paper  went  to  press,  at 
three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  would  write  two  or  three 
stanzas  on  a  subject  that  had  at  some  time  of  the  busy  day 
flashed  into  his  mind,  and  had  been  put  aside  to  wait  for  a 
moment  of  leisure.  These  poetic  subjects  were  most  varied.  He 
did  not  seek  to  control  them,  nor  reduce  them  to  any  system. 
Generally  they  were  left  unfinished;  yet  they  forced  a  hearing 
since  he  could  not  resist  them  entirely.  Sometimes  he  would 
repeat  to  an  intimate  friend  a  couplet  that  had  darted  into  his 
mind  ready  made,  and  he  would  complete  the  stanza,  giving  it, 
more  than  likely,  an  amusing  turn.  Vigorous  as  he  was  in  the 
prose  of  journalism,  and  great  as  were  his  resources  as  a  writer 
of  masculine  leaders  and  paragraphs  with  the  keenest  edge,  he 
yet  impressed  those  who  knew  him  well  as  one  who  would  never 
cease  to  feel  the  fascination  of  poetry  and  belles-lettres.  .  .  . 
His  poetry  is  graceful  and  gentle,  the  reflex  of  happy  moods,  or  of 
tender  seriousness.  It  is  characterized  by  an  intense  love  of 
natural  scenery,  especially  far-reaching  pastoral  or  forest  love 
liness.  He  was  master,  too,  of  the  pathos  that  is  'twixt  a  smile 
and  a  tear.  .  .  .  His  poems  will  give  him  a  place  of  honor 
among  Ohio  singers." 

154 


FLORUS  BEARDS  LEY  PLIMPTON 

Though  Mr.  Plimpton  contributed  verse  to  various  news 
papers  and  periodicals,  including  the  Knickerbocker  Magazine, 
Godey's  Lady's  Book,  the  Genius  of  the  West,  the  New  York 
Tribune,  the  Ohio  State  Journal,  and  the  Cincinnati  Commercial, 
no  collection  of  his  poems  was  published  during  his  lifetime. 
An  elegantly  illustrated  memorial  volume  of  his  verse,  however, 
comprising  seventy  of  the  author's  best  lyrics,  compiled  and 
edited  by  his  widow,  with  an  introduction  by  Murat  Halstead, 
and  containing  eulogistic  tributes  from  Mr.  J.  W.  Miller,  Mr. 
J.  M.  Cochran,  and  Hon.  Jacob  D.  Cox,  was  issued  in  Cincinnati 
in  1886.  One  of  the  dedicatory  pages  of  this  elaborate  volume  is 
devoted  to  the  following  lines  contributed  by  Edith  M.  Thomas : 

"He  who  hath  told  his  mortal  days 
And  passed  beyond  the  voice  of  praise, 
From  song's  full  service  was  debarred. 
He  toilsome  days  and  nights  did  guard, 
To  which  the  records  in  these  leaves 
Were  welcome  periods  and  reprieves. 
Yet  none  the  less,  in  hour  of  need, 
With  generous  faith  he  bade  them  speed, 
Who,  half  in  fear  and  hopeful  half, 
Pierian  waters  sought  to  quaff." 

We  may  appropriately  close  this  sketch  by  again  quoting 
from  Mr.  Halstead's  memorial  tribute :  "I  knew  well  long  ago  that 
while  I  should  ask  the  forgiveness  of  forgetfulness  for  my  crude 
Indian  and  rural  stories,  .  .  .  there  was  something  in  the 
poetry  of  Plimpton  that  was  rare  and  preciou's.  Boy  and  man, 
through  the  changes  of  forty  years,  he  found  in  poetry  the  finer, 
higher,  truer  expression  of  himself.  Loving  hands  have  pre 
served  with  wonderful  care  that  has  rewarded  itself,  the  poems 
that  were  the  flowers  of  a  life  of  labor  always  hard  and  often 
barren,  and  that  was  full  of  the  inherent  and  impulsive  qualities 
that  are  the  springs  of  poetry  —  a  life  whose  chief  happiness  was 
in  the  fervent  faith  that  the  earth  was  beautiful  and  mankind 
good.  .  .  .  He  touched  the  harp  because  it  comforted  him. 

155 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

There  were  things  to  say  that  could  not  otherwise  be  said ;  there 
were  tones,  rays  of  light,  to  trace  through  melodies  unheard  by, 
and  illuminations  invisible  to,  others  —  pathways  into  the  infinite 
space  that  seemed  to  promise  the  divine  achievement  of  the 
humanly  unattainable.  .  .  .  For  the  audience  of  the  fit, 
whether  many  or  few,  these  utterances  will  be  refreshing  like  a 
mountain  rill  or  a  bough  laden  with  roses,  or  the  flavor  of  the 
clover  fields  and  tasseling  corn,  or  the  bloom  of  the  locust  and 
apple  trees  of  Ohio." 


SUMMER  DAYS 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 

We  walked  together  in  the  wood ; 
Our  heart  was  light,  our  step  was  strong ; 

Sweet  flutterings  then  were  in  our  blood, 
In  summer  when  the  days  were  long. 

We  strayed  from  morn  till  evening  came ; 

We  gathered  flowers  and  wove  us  crowns ; 
We  walked  'mid  poppies  red  as  flame, 

Or  sat  upon  the  yellow  downs ; 
And  always  wished  our  lives  the  same. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  were  long, 

We  leaped  the  hedge-row,  crossed  the  brook ; 

And  still  her  voice  flowed  forth  in  song, 
Or  else  she  read  some  graceful  book, 

In  summer  when  the  days  were  long. 

And  then  we  sat  beneath  the  trees, 
With  shadows  lessening  in  the  noon; 

And  in  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze 
We  rested  many  a  gorgeous  June, 

While  larks  were  singing  o'er  the  leas. 


156 


FLORUS  BEARDSLEY  PLIMPTON 

We  loved,  and  yet  we  knew  it  not  — 
For  loving  seemed  like  breathing  then ; 

We  found  a  heaven  in  every  spot ; 
Saw  angels,  too,  in  all  good  men, 

And  dreamed  of  God  in  grove  and  grot. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
Alone  I  wander, —  muse  alone  — 

I  see  her  not;  but  that  old  song 
Under  the  fragrant  wind  is  blown, 

In  summer  when  the  days  are  long. 

Alone  I  wander  in  the  wood; 

But  one  fair  spirit  hears  my  sighs ; 
And  half  I  see,  so  glad  and  good, 

The  honest  daylight  of  her  eyes, 
That  charmed  me  under  earlier  skies. 

In  summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 

I  love  her  as  we  loved  of  old ; 
My  heart  is  light,  my  step  is  strong; 

For  love  brings  back  those  hours  of  gold 
In  summer  when  the  days  are  long. 


THE  REFORMER 
(Extract) 

Oh,  large  of  heart!  oh,  nobly  great! 

He  scorns  the  thrall  of  sect  and  clan, 
Shakes  off  the  fetters  forged  in  hate, 

And  claims  a  brotherhood  with  man. 

Dwarfed  Ignorance  fills  the  world  with  wail, 

Opinion  sneers  at  his  advance; 
And  Error,  rusted  in  his  mail, 

Strides  forth  to  meet  him,  lance  to  lance. 


157 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

For  him  the  tyrant's  guard  is  set, 
For  him  the  bigot's  fagots  fired, 

For  him  the  headsman's  ax  is  whet, 
And  chains  are  forged  and  minions  hired. 

Invincible  in  God  and  Truth, 

To  smite  the  errors  of  his  age 
He  gives  the  fiery  force  of  youth, 

The  tempered  wisdom  of  the  sage. 

He  sees,  as  prophets  saw  afar, 

In  faith  and  vision  rapt  sublime, 
The  coming  of  the  Morning  Star, 

The  glory  of  the  latter  time. 

His  faith,  outreaching  circumstance, 
Beholds,  beyond  the  narrow  range 

Of  present  time,  the  slow  advance 
Of  cycles  bringing  wondrous  change. 

He  hears  the  mighty  march  of  mind, 

The  stately  steppings  of  the  free, 
Where  glorious  in  the  sun  and  wind, 

Their  blazoned  banners  yet  shall  be. 

Well  can  he  wait :  the  seed  that  lies 

Hid  in  the  cold,  repulsive  clay, 
Shall  burst  in  after  centuries, 

And  spread  its  glories  to  the  day. 

Well  can  he  wait :  though  sown  in  tears 

And  martyred  blood,  with  scourge  and  stripe, 

God  watches  through  the  whirling  years, 
And  quickens  when  the  hour  is  ripe. 

Man's  hands  may  fail,  the  slackened  rein 
Drop  from  his  nerveless  grasp,  but  still 

The  wheels  shall  thunder  on  the  plain, 
Rolled  by  the  lightning  of  his  will. 

158 


FLORUS  BEARDSLEY  PLIMPTON 

PITTSBURG 

Veiled  in  thick  clouds,  shut  in  by  shelving  hills, 
The  city  of  a  thousand  forges  lies, 
Nor  feels  the  pleasant  glow  of  sunny  skies. 

Hard  toil  have  they  who,  in  her  thundering  mills, 

Stir  the  white-heated  metal  or  draw  out 

The  lengthening  bar,  or  at  the  ponderous  wheel 
Turn  the  huge  shaft  and  shape  the  edging  steel. 

How  like  a  hell  from  pit  and  chimney  spout 

The  tumbling  smoke  and  lapping  flames  that  light 
The  sky  like  torches,  and  reflecting  quiver 
Along  the  tremulous  surface  of  the  river. 

Unlovely  though  she  be,  in  Freedom's  might 

Her  strong  hands  build  —  buttress  and  tower  and  crest- 
The  iron  gateway  to  the  golden  West. 

IN  REMEMBRANCE 
J.  P.,  Feb.  11,  1S78 

If  only  she  were  here,  who  knew 

The  secret  paths  of  fields  and  woods, 
And  where  the  earliest  wild  flowers  through 

Cool  mosses  push  their  dainty  hoods; 
Whose  voice  was  like  a  mother's  call 

To  them,  and  bade  them  wake  and  rise, 
And  mark  the  morning's  splendors  fall 

In  mists  of  pearl  from  tender  skies :  — 

If  only  she  were  here,  to  see 

The  landscape  freshening  hour  by  hour, 
And  watch  in  favorite  plant  and  tree 

The  bud  unfold  in  leaf  and  flower; 
To  welcome  back  from  sunny  lands 

The  bluebirds  that  have  tarried  long, 
Or  feed  with  her  own  loving  hands 

The  bright,  red-breasted  prince  of  song :  — 

159 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

If,  brightening  down  th'  accustomed  walk, 

She  came  to  welcome  friend  and  guest, 
To  share  our  light,  unstudied  talk, 

And  sparkle  at  the  rising  jest; 
Or,  leading  on  to  nobler  themes, 

In  art  and  science  play  the  sage, 
And  rapt,  as  in  prophetic  dreams, 

Foretell  the  wonders  of  the  age :  — 

Could  she  return,  as  now  the  spring 

Returns  in  robes  of  green  and  gold, 
When  love  and  song  are  on  the  wing, 

And  hearts  forget  that  they  are  old  — 
How  bright  were  all  the  days !  how  fair 

This  miracle  of  life  would  be ! 
Whose  pulsings  thrill  the  glowing  air 

And  quicken  over  land  and  sea. 

And  shall  we  doubt  thy  presence  here, 

Spirit  of  light,  because  our  eyes, 
Veiled  in  this  earthly  atmosphere, 

See  not  the  heaven  that  near  us  lies? 
More  living  thou  than  we,  who  stand 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  years, 
Whose  glimpses  of  a  better  land 

Are  caught  through  eyelids  wet  with  tears. 


RETURN 

Return  —  return !  nor  longer  stay  thy  feet, 
Where  rugged  hills  shut  in  the  peaceful  dale, 
And  chattering  runnels  riot  through  the  vale, 

And  lose  themselves  in  meadows  violet  sweet. 

Or  does  the  oriole  charm  thee ;  or  the  lark 

Lure  thee  to  green  fields,  where  the  gurgling  brook 
Leaps  up  to  kiss  thy  feet,  the  while  we  look 

160 


FLORUS  BEARDSLEY  PLIMPTON 

For  thee  with  tearful  eyes  from  morn  till  dark? 

O  winds,  that  blow  from  out  th'  inconstant  west, 
O  birds,  that  eastward  wing  your  heavenly  way, 
Tell  her  of  OUT  impatience  —  her  delay, 

And  woo  the  wanderer  to  her  humble  nest ; 

Come,  as  the  dove  that  folds  her  wings  in  rest, 

When  holy  evening  sets  her  watch-star  in  the  west. 

SPRINGTIME 

(Extract) 

The  robin  rests  its  northward  wing, 
And  twittering  in  the  quickened  tree, 
Pipes  all  its  sweetest  notes  for  me  — 

The  merriest  prophet  of  the  spring. 

I  knew  that  it  would  come  once  more 
When  nights  grew  short  and  days  were  long, 
To  wake  the  morning  with  its  song, 

And  feed  its  fledglings  round  my  door. 

From  all  the  fields  the  snows  have  fled, 
And  thro'  the  grasses  gray  and  sere, 
Peeps  the  green  promise  of  the  year  — 

The  hope  that  slumbered  with  the  dead. 

In  every  nook  the  crocus  springs  — 
The  dandelions  star  the  hills, 
And  round  the  golden  daffodils 

I  hear  the  bee's  industrious  wings. 

WAITING  TO  DIE 

Lonely   the   hearthstone, 
Silent  the  halls, 
Faded  the  pictures 
Hung  on  the  walls. 

161 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Rusty  the  door-hinge, 
Pathways  grass-grown  - 
O,  it  is  weary 
Dwelling  alone! 

Sadly  he  goeth  — 
Thus  do  they  say  — 
Locks,  once  an  auburn, 
Silvered  and  gray; 
Feebly  he's  leaning 
Now  on  his  cane, 
Wrinkled  with  sorrows, 
Bending  with  pain. 

Heavily  stepping, 
Stiffened  with  years, 
Sightless  his  dark  eyes, 
Deafened  his  ears, 
Slowly  he  moveth  — 
Let  him  pass  by ! 
Pity  an  old  man 
Waiting  to  die. 


162 


BENJAMIN  RUSSEL  HANBY 

BENJAMIN  RUSSEL  HANBY,  conspicuous  among  the 
song-writers  of  Ohio,  was  born  July  22,  1833,  in  Rush- 
ville,  Fairfield  County,  Ohio,  and  he  died  in  Westerville, 
Franklin  County,  March  16,  1867.  In  1858  he  graduated  from 
Otterbein  College,  Westerville,  Ohio,  and  soon  thereafter  be 
came  a  school-teacher.  Later  he  entered  the  ministry  in  the 
United  Brethren  Church,  but  after  a  brief  service  he  left  the 
pulpit,  to  engage  in  business  as  musical  composer,  finding  con 
genial  employment  first  with  the  John  Church  Company,  Cin 
cinnati,  and  then  with  Root  &  Cady,  Chicago.  He  wrote  many 
popular  pieces,  sentimental,  political,  and  religious, —  but  is  best 
known  by  the  lyric,  "Darling  Nelly  Gray,"  which  was  composed 
in  1856.  Among  other  of  Hanby's  songs,  "Little  Tillie's  Grave," 
"Now  den!  Now  den!"  and  "Ole  Shady"  may  be  mentioned  as 
having  once  been  much  in  public  favor. 

DARLING  NELLY  GRAY 
There's  a  low,  green  valley,  on  the  old  Kentucky  shore, 

Where  I've  whiled  many  happy  hours  away, 
A-sitting  and  a-singing  by  the  little  cottage  door, 

Where  lived  my  darling  Nelly  Gray. 

CHORUS 
Oh !  my  poor  Nelly  Gray,  they  have  taken  you  away, 

And  I'll  never  see  my  darling  any  more; 
I  am  sitting  by  the  river  and  I'm  weeping  all  the  day, 

For  you've  gone  from  the  old  Kentucky  shore. 

When  the  moon  had  climbed  the  mountain  and  the  stars  were 
shining,  too,     • 

Then  I'd  take  my  darling  Nelly  Gray, 
And  we'd  float  down  the  river  in  my  little  red  canoe, 

While  my  banjo  sweetly  I  would  play. 

163 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

One  night  I  went  to  see  her,  but  "She's  gone!"  the  neigh 
bors  say, 

The  white  man  bound  her  with  his  chain; 
They  have  taken  her  to  Georgia  for  to  wear  her  life  away, 

As  she  toils  in  the  cotton  and  the  cane. 

My  canoe  is  under  water,  and  my  banjo  is  unstrung ; 

I'm  tired  of  living  any  more; 
My  eyes  shall  look  downward,  and  my  song  shall  be  unsung, 

While  I  stay  on  the  old  Kentucky  shore. 

My  eyes  are  getting  blinded,  and  I  cannot  see  my  way. 

Hark !  there's  somebody  knocking  at  the  door  — 
Oh !  I  hear  the  angels  calling,  and  I  see  my  Nelly  Gray, 

Farewell  to  the  old  Kentucky  shore. 

CHORUS 
Oh,  my  darling  Nelly  Gray,  up  in  heaven  there  they  say 

That  they'll  never  take  you  from  me  any  more  ; 
I'm  a-coming,  coming,  coming,  as  the  angels  clear  the  way, 

Farewell  to  the  old  Kentucky  shore. 


164 


JOHN  JAMES  PIATT 

JOHN  JAMES  PIATT,  son  of  John  Bear  and  Emily  (Scott) 
Piatt,  and  a  great-grandson  of  Captain  William  Piatt,  (an 
officer  in  the  Revolutionary  army  and  an  original  member 
of  the  Society  of  the  Cincinnati,)  was  born  at  James's  Mills, 
Dearborn  County,  (now  Ohio  County,)  Ind.,  March  1,  1835. 
He  first  attended  school  at  Rising  Sun,  Ind.,  but  in  his  tenth 
year  his  parents  removed  to  Columbus,  Ohio,  where  his  education 
was  continued  chiefly  under  private  instruction.  Then  another 
removal,  three  or  fou'r  miles  northward  from  the  capital  of  the 
State,  gave  him  some  experience  in  the  old-fashioned,  Western, 
log  school-house.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  placed  in  the 
family  of  his  uncle,  Charles  Scott,  at  Columbus,  where  for  brief 
periods  he  attended  the  High  School  and  the  Capital  University, 
going  thence  to  Kenyon  College,  Gambier,  Ohio,  where  he  first 
began  writing  verses,  having  been  stimulated  thereto  by  reading 
Leigh  Hunt's  "Imagination  and  Fancy."  In  1856  he  accompanied 
his  parents  to  Shelby  County,  111.,  where  he  remained  for  about 
a  year,  several  months  of  which  he  spent  with  his  uncle  Scott, 
who  had  previously  moved  from  Columbus  to  Chicago.  In  Illi 
nois  Mr.  Piatt,  whose  early  life  had  been  pretty  equally  divided 
between  town  and  country,  wrote  "The  Morning  Street,"  "The 
Forgotten  Street,"  "Fires  in  Illinois,"  and  several  other  poems 
referring  to  the  prairie  region.  The  two  lyrics  last  named  were 
contributed  to  the  Louisville  Journal,  the  editor  of  which,  George 
D.  Prentice,  pronounced  "The  Forgotten  Street"  the  work  of 
"one  of  the  most  subtle  spirits  of  our  time."  A  year  or  two 
later,  Mr.  Prentice, —  with  whom,  in  the  meanwhile,  Piatt  had 
become  editorially  associated, —  forwarded  a  copy  of  "The  Morn 
ing  Street"  to  James  Russell  Lowell,  who,  in  a  letter  to  the 
author,  expressed  great  admiration  for  the  poem,  and  who,  in 

165 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

March,  1859,  published  the  same  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  of 
which  he  was  then  the  editor. 

Revisiting  Columbus  in  1859,  Mr.  Piatt  there  met  Mr.  Wil 
liam  Dean  Howells,  with  whom  he  had  formed  a  slight  acquaint 
ance  some  eight  or  nine  years  previously,  in  the  State  Journal 
office,  and  the  result  of  the  literary  relations  which  were  soon 
established  between  the  young  writers,  was  a  joint  volume  of  verse 
entitled  "Poems  of  Two  Friends,"  issued  in  Columbus,  in  1859, — 
a  publication  now  rare  and  valuable  as  a  "first  book"  of  each 
author. 

In  March,  1861,  Mr.  Piatt  was  appointed,  by  Secretary 
Chase,  to  a  clerkship  in  the  Treasury  Department,  at  Washington, 
D.  C.  Soon  afterward,  June  18,  1861,  he  was  married,  at  New 
castle,  Ky.,  to  Miss  Sarah  Morgan  Bryan.  The  young  couple 
resided  in  Washington  for  about  six  years,  at  the  close  of  which 
period,  in  1867,  they  established  their  home  at  North  Bend,  Ohio, 
on  the  picturesque  heights  overlooking  the  Ohio  River,  a  few 
miles  below  Cincinnati. 

In  March,  1864,  Mr.  Piatt  published  The  Nests  at  Washing 
ton,  a  collection  of  poems  by  himself  and  Mrs.  Piatt,  which  elicited 
the  cordial  praise  of  Longfellow,  and  greatly  widened  the  repu 
tation  of  "the  wedded  poets."  This  book  was  followed,  in  1866, 
by  the  volume,  Poems  in  Sunshine  and  Firelight,  which  was 
issued  in  Cincinnati ;  and,  later,  by  Western  Windows  and  Other 
Poems,  dedicated  to  the  author's  old  friend,  George  D.  Prentice, 
and  also  issued  in  the  Queen  City.  In  the  years  1868-9  Piatt  was 
connected  editorially  with  the  Cincinnati  Chronicle;  and,  from 
1869  to  1878,  he  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  the  Cincinnati 
Commercial. 

From  1871  to  1875  Mr.  Piatt  was  Librarian  of  the  United 
States  House  of  Representatives ;  and  in  1882  he  was  appointed 
United  States  Consul  at  Cork,  Ireland,  where  the  government 
retained  him  in  office  until  1893.  During  their  residence  abroad 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Piatt  enjoyed  the  acquaintance  and  friendship  of 
many  distinguished  literary  people,  including  Jean  Ingelow, 
Aubrey  de  Vere,  Edward  Dowden,  Lady  Wilde,  Philip  Bourke 

166 


JOHN   JAMES   PI  ATT 

Marston,  Edmund  Gosse,  Austin  Dobson,  Alice  Meynell,  Kath- 
erine  Tynan,  and  Professor  John  Stuart  Blackie.  From  April 
to  September,  1893,  Mr.  Piatt  served  as  Consul  at  Dublin,  Ire 
land.  He  remained  abroad  until  the  following  year,  when  he 
returned  to  America  and  to  his  home  at  North  Bend,  Ohio,  where 
he  has  resided  ever  since,  devoting  himself  to  literary  pursuits, 
being  latterly  engaged  as  book-reviewer  for  the  Cincinnati  En 
quirer  and  as  associate  editor  of  Midland. 

John  James  Piatt  holds  a  deservedly  conspicuous  place  among 
contemporary  American  poets.  In  the  words  of  a  Western  critic : 
"He  is  one  of  those  'planters  of  celestial  plants,'  who  have  never 
lost  faith  in  high  ideals  or  in  the  divinity  of  the  Muses.  He  has 
exerted  an  elevating  influence  on  the  literary  profession  in  the 
Ohio  Valley,  both  by  his  discriminating  work  as  an  editorial 
writer,  and  by  his  many  publications  in  prose  and  verse.  The 
country  owes  him  a  debt  of  gratitude  for  compiling  that  notably 
elegant  and  comprehensive  volume,  The  Union  of  American 
Poetry  and  Art,  (1880,)  and  for  issuing  the  more  recent  volumes 
of  The  Hesperian  Tree,  An  Annual  of  the  Ohio  Valley,  (1900, 
1903,)  which  contain  some  of  the  best  literature  of  the  locality 
and  period  they  represent.  Mr.  Piatt's  reputation  as  a  poet  is 
established;  he  needs  no  new  encomium.  Proud  and  jealous  of 
the  region  in  which  he  was  born  and  educated,  he  has  chosen  to 
write  on  local  themes,  and  has  given  subtle  and  delicate  poetic 
expression  to  thoughts  and  emotions  evoked  by  the  idyllic,  the 
home-bred,  and  the  pensive." 

Mr.  Piatt's  poetical  work,  which  has  won  for  its  author  a 
multitude  of  admiring  and  appreciative  readers,  is  held  in  high 
estimation  by  critics,  not  only  in  the  United  States,  but  also  in 
Great  Britain  and  Ireland.  That  his  verse  has  received  a  cordial 
welcome  in  transatlantic  circles  is  amply  testified  in  the  follow 
ing  extracts  from  representative  foreign  periodicals :  "The  'Great 
West/  of  which  Mr.  Piatt  is  a  native,  is  preeminently  a  land  of 
poetic  inspiration.  Its  boundless  prairies,  its  vast  depths  of  impen 
etrable  forests,  its  gigantic  rivers,  its  gorgeous  sunsets  and  sun 
rises,  its  quiet  scenes  of  natural  beauty,  and  its  pathetic  tradi- 

167 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

tions  of  the  pioneer  colonists,  are  all  meet  subjects  for  the  poet's 
contemplation,  .  .  .  and  the  impressions  they  have  left  on 
him  he  has  reproduced  with  no  less  grace  than  freshness.  But 
chiefly  does  he  seem  to  love  the  simple  home-life  of  the  West, 
which  he  describes  with  a  depth  and  refinement  of  feeling  that 
are  equally  rare  and  admirable." — The  Nation  (Dublin). 
"For  us  Europeans  these  poems  have  the  additional  charm 
of  describing  scenes  with  which  we  are  comparatively  un 
familiar.  But  while  some  of  the  scenes  are  alien,  the  human 
sentiment  of  the  book  is  never  remote.  Mr.  Piatt  glories  in  the 
poetry  of  common  life.  He  will  not  allow  familiarity  to  rob 
family  bonds,  or  patriotism,  or  childhood's  associations  of  any  of 
their  sacredness  or  grandeur.  .  .  .  He  plays  with  a  firm 
hand  on  these  universal  heartstrings,  and  holds  us  unwearied 
by  his  music." — The  Literary  World  (London).  "The 
writer  is,  taken  altogether,  as  unlike  Crabbe,  as  unlike  Gray, 
as  unlike  Wordsworth,  as  one  poet  can  be  unlike  another, 
for  he  is  quite  original,  with  a  distinct  individuality;  but  there 
are  in  his  writings  touches  that  call  to  mind  Crabbe,  Gray,  and 
Wordsworth.  This  means  no  more,  of  course,  than  that  he  is 
rustic,  idyllic,  pathetic,  domestic;  that  he  plays,  for  the  most 
part,  on  the  oaten  reed,  and  that,  though  self-taught  and  unimi- 
tative,  he  plays  sometimes  like  the  masters  of  that  simple  in 
strument." — The  Illustrated  London  News.  "He  draws  his 
inspiration  from  the  romance  which  always  clings  to  the 
childhood  of  men  and  nations,  to  the  'mystery  of  the  be 
ginning.  .  .  .  His  verses,  which  are  free  from  any  taint  of  folly 
or  false  taste,  breathe  the  freshness  of  the  Western  scenery  with 
which  he  is  familiar;  and  while  they  suggest  that  touch  of 
melancholy,  which  is  characteristic  of  all  poems  descriptive  of 
American  scenery,  they  are  to  be  commended  for  a  wholesome 
moderation  in  style  and  sentiment." —  The  Westminster  Review. 


H',8 


JOHN   JAMES   PI  ATT 

KING'S  TAVERN 

Far-off  spires,  a  mist  of  silver,  shimmer  from  the  far-off  town; 
Haunting  here  the  dreary  turnpike,  stands  the  tavern,  crumbling 
down. 

Half  a  mile  before  you  pass  it,  half  a  mile  when  you  are  gone, 
Like  a  ghost  it  comes  to  meet  you,  ghost-like  still  it  follows  on. 

Never  more  the  sign-board,  swinging,  flaunts  its  gilded  wonder 

there : 
"Philip  King" — a  dazzled  harvest  shocked  in  Western  sunset  air! 

Never,  as  with  nearer  tinkle  through  the  dust  of  long  ago 
Creep  the  Pennsylvania  wagons  up  the  twilight  —  white  and  slow. 

With  a  low,  monotonous  thunder,  yonder  flies  the  hurrying  train  — 
Hark,  the  echoes  in  the  quarry !  —  in  the  woodland  lost  again ! 

Never  more  the  friendly  windows,  red  with  warmth  and  Chris 
tian  light, 
Breathe  the  traveler's  benediction  to  his  brethren  in  the  night. 

Old  in  name,  The  Haunted  Tavern  holds  the  barren  rise  alone ; — 
Standing  high  in  air  deserted,  ghost-like  long  itself  has  grown. 

Not  a  pane  in  any  window  —  many  a  ragged  corner-bit : 

Boys,  the  strolling  exorcisors,  gave  the  ghost  their  notice — "Quit." 


Jamestown-weeds  have  close  invaded,  year  by  year,  the  bar-room 

door, 
Where,  within,  in  damp  and  silence  gleams  the  lizard  on  the  floor. 

Through  the  roof  the  drear  Novembers  trickle  down  the  midnight 

slow ; 
In  the  summer's  warping  sunshine  green  with  moss  the  shingles 

grow. 

169 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Yet  in  Maying  wind  the  locust,  sifting  sunny  blossom,  snows, 
And  the  rose-vine  still  remembers  some  dear  face  that  loved  the 
rose, — 

Climbing  up  a  southern  casement,  looking  in  neglected  air; 
And,  in  golden  honey-weather,  careful  bees  are  humming  there. 

In  the  frozen  moon  at  midnight  some  have  heard,  when  all  was 

still  — 
Nothing,  I  know !    A  ghostly  silence  keeps  the  tavern  on  the  hill ! 


HONORS  OF  WAR 

Wails  of  slow  music  move  along,  the  street, 
Before  the  slow  march  of  a  myriad  feet 

Whose  mournful  echoes  come; 
Banners  are  muffled,  hiding  all  their  sight 
Of  sacred  stars  —  the  century's  dearest  light  — 

And,  muffled,  throbs  the  drum. 

Proud  is  the  hearse  our  Mother  gives  her  son,1 
On  the  red  altar  laid  her  earliest  one! 

Wrapp'd  in  her  holiest  pall 
He  goes :  her  household  guardians  follow  him ; 
Eyes  with  their  new  heroic  tears  are  dim ; 

The  stern  to-morrows  call ! 

Well  might  the  youth  who  saw  his  coffined  face, 
Lying  in  state  within  the  proudest  place, 

Long  for  a  lot  so  high : 

He  was  the  first  to  leap  the  treacherous  wall ; 
First  in  the  arms  of  Death  and  Fame  to  fall  — 

To  live  because  to  die ! 


1  Ephriam  Elmer  Ellsworth,  an  American  officer  of  Zouaves,  shot  at  Alexandria,  Va. 
May  24,  1861. 

170 


JOHN   JAMES   PI  ATT 

Pass  on,  with  wails  of  music,  moving  slow, 

Thy  dark  dead-march,  O  Mother  dress'd  in  woe! 

Lo,  many  another  way 
Shall  blacken  after,  many  a  sacred  head 
Brightly  thy  stars  shall  fold,  alive  though  dead, 

From  many  a  funeral  day ! 

Weep,  but  grow  stronger  in  thy  suffering : 

From  their  dead  brothers'  graves  thy  sons  shall  bring 

New  life  of  love  for  thee : 
The  long  death-marches  herald,  slow  or  fast, 
The  resurrection-hour  of  men  at  last 

New-born  in  Liberty! 
WASHINGTON,  May,  1861. 


SONNET  — IN   1862 

Stern  be  the  Pilot  in  the  dreadful  hour 
When  a  great  nation,  like  a  ship  at  sea 
With  the  wroth  breakers  whitening  at  her  lee, 

Feels  her  last  shudder  if  her  Helmsman  cower; 

A  godlike  manhood  be  his  mighty  dower ! 
Such  and  so  gifted,  Lincoln,  may'st  thou  be 
With  thy  high  wisdom's  low  simplicity 

And  awful  tenderness  of  voted  power : 

From  our  hot  records  then  thy  name  shall  stand 
On  Time's  calm  ledger  out  of  passionate  days 

With  the  pure  debt  of  gratitude  begun 
And  only  paid  in  never-ending  praise  — 

One  of  the  many  of  a  mighty  Land 

Made  by  God's  providence  the  Anointed  One. 


171 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

THE  GOLDEN  HAND  1 

Lo,  from  the  city's  heat  and  dust 
A  Golden  Hand  forever  thrust, 
Uplifting  from  a  spire  on  high 
A  shining  finger  in  the  sky ! 

I  see  it  when  the  morning  brings 
Fresh  tides  of  life  to  living  things, 
And  the  great  world  awakes :  behold, 
That  lifted  Hand  in  morning  gold ! 

I  see  it  when  the  noontide  beats 
Pulses  of  fire  in  busy  streets ; 
The  dust  flies  in  the  flaming  air : 
Above,  that  quiet  Hand  is  there. 

I  see  it  when  the  twilight  clings 
To  the  dark  earth  with  hovering  wings : 
Flashing  with  the  last  fluttering  ray, 
That  Golden  Hand  remembers  day. 

The  midnight  comes  —  the  holy  hour ; 
The  city,  like  a  giant  flower, 
Sleeps  full  of  dew :  that  Hand,  in  light 
Of  moon  and  stars,  how  weirdly  bright ! 

Below,  in  many  a  noisy  street, 
Are  toiling  hands  and  striving  feet ; 
The  weakest  rise,  the  strongest  fall: 
That  equal  Hand  is  over  all. 


1  The  lofty  steeple  of  the  First  Prebyterian  Church,  on  the  north  side  of  Fourth  Street, 
between  Main  and  Walnut,  Cincinnati,  terminates  in  a  "golden  hand" — the  inspiration  of 
this  poem. 

172 


JOHN   JAMES   PI  ATT 

Below,  in  courts  to  guard  the  land, 
Gold  buys  the  tongue  and  binds  the  hand ; 
Dropping  in  God's  great  scales  the  gold, 
That  awful  Hand,  above,  behold ! 

Below,  the  Sabbaths  walk  serene, 
With  the  great  dust  of  days  between; 
Preachers  within  their  pulpits  stand ; 
See,  over  all,  that  heavenly  Hand! 

But  the  hot  dust,  in  crowded  air 
Below,  arises  never  there :  — 
O  speech  of  one  who  can  not  speak! 
O  Sabbath-witness  of  the  Week ! 
CINCINNATI,  OHIO,  1859. 


THE  MORNING  STREET 

Alone  I  walk  the  Morning  Street, 
Filled  with  the  silence  vague  and  sweet: 
All  seems  as  strange,  as  still,  as  dead, 
As  if  unnumbered  years  had  fled, 
Letting  the  noisy  Babel  lie 
Breathless  and  dumb  against  the  sky. 
The  light  wind  walks  with  me,  alone, 
Where  the  hot  day,  flame-like,  was  blown; 
Where  the  wheels  roared,  the  dust  was  beat:- 
The  dew  is  in  the  Morning  Street! 

Where  are  the  restless  throngs  that  pour 

Along  this  mighty  corridor 

While  the  noon  shines  ? —  the  hurrying  crowd 

Whose  footsteps  make  the  city  loud?  — 

The  myriad  faces,  hearts  that  beat 

No  more  in  the  deserted  street? 


173 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Those  footsteps,  in  their  dreaming  maze, 
Cross  thresholds  of  forgotten  days ; 
Those  faces  brighten  from  the  years 
In  rising  suns  long  set  in  tears; 
Those  hearts  —  far  in  the  Past  they  beat, 
Unheard  within  the  Morning  Street! 

Some  city  of  the  world's  gray  prime, 
Lost  in  some  desert  far  from  Time, 
Where   noiseless   ages,   gliding   through, 
Have  only  sifted  sand  and  dew, — 
Yet  a  mysterious  hand  of  man 
Lying  on  all  the  haunted  plan, 
The  passions  of  the  human  heart 
Quickening  the  marble  breast  of  Art, — 
Were  not  more  strange,  to  one  who  first 
Upon  its  ghostly  silence  burst, 
Than  this  vast  quiet,  where  the  tide 
Of  Life,  upheaved  on  either  side, 
Hangs  trembling,  ready  soon  to  beat 
With  human  waves  the  Morning  Street! 

Ay,  soon  the  glowing  morning  flood 

Breaks  through  the  charmed  solitude: 

This  silent  stone,  to  music  won, 

Shall  murmur  to  the  rising  sun; 

The  busy  place,  in  dust  and  heat, 

Shall  roar  with  wheels  and  swarm  with  feet;- 

The  Arachne-threads  of  Purpose  stream, 

Unseen,  within  the  morning  gleam; 

The  life  shall  move,  the  death  be  plain; 

The  bridal  throng,  the  funeral  train, 

Together,  face  to  face,  shall  meet 

And  pass,  within  the  Morning  Street! 

1858. 


174 


JOHN   JAMES   PI  ATT 

THE  OPEN  SLAVE-PEN 

We  start  from  sleep  in  morning's  buoyant  dawn, 
And  find  the  horror  which  our  sleep  oppress'd 

A  vanish'd  darkness,  in  the  daylight  gone  — 

The  nightmare's  burthen  leaves  the  stifled  breast. 

Yet  still  a  presence  moves  about  the  brain, 
Some  frightful  shadow  lost  in  hazy  light, 

And  in  the  noonday  highway  comes  again 

The  loathsome  phantom  of  the  breathless  night. 

So,  while  before  these  hateful  doors  I  stand, 
I  feel  the  burdening  darkness  which  is  pass'd, 

Or  passing  surely  from  the  awaken'd  land : 
The  nightmare  clutches  me  and  holds  me  fast. 

Back  from  the  years  that  seem  so  long  ago 

Return  the  dark  processions  which  have  been; 

Lifting  again  lost  manacles  of  woe 

They  enter  here  —  they  vanish,  going  in. 

Hark  to  the  smother'd  murmur  of  a  race 

Within  these  walls  —  its  helpless  wail  and  moan  — 

Which,  for  the  ancient  shadow  on  its  face, 

Call'd  not  the  morning's  new-born  light  its  own! 

Imprison'd  here,  what  un forgotten  cries 

Of  hopeless  torture  and  what  sights  of  woe, 

From  cotton-field  and  rice-plantation  rise ! — 

These  walls  have  heard,  and  seen,  and  witness  show. 

The  human  drove,  the  human  driver,  see! 

Hark,  the  dread  bloodhound  in  the  swamp  at  bay ! 
The  whipping-post  reechoes  agony; 

The  slave-mart  blackens  all  the  shameful  day. 

175 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

The  wife  and  husband,  see,  asunder  thrust; 

The  mother  dragg'd  from  her  far  children's  wail ; 
The  maiden  torn  from  love  and  given  to  lust  — 

The  Human  Family  in  a  bill  of  sale ! 

All  sounds  reecho,  all  sights  reappear: 

(O  blindness,  deafness !  that  ye  can  not  be!) 

All  sounds  of  woe,  that  have  been  heard,  I  hear ; 
All  sights  of  shame,  that  have  been  seen,  I  see! 

O  sounds,  be  still !     O  visions,  leave  the  day !  — 
What  thunder  trembled  on  the  sultry  air? 

What  lightnings  went  upon  their  breathless  way? 
Behold  the  stricken  gates  of  old  despair ! 

The  writing  on  these  barbarous  walls  was  plain; 

The  curse  has  fallen  none  would  understand: 
God's  deluge  ere  another  happier  rain ; 

His  plow  of  fire  before  the  reaper's  knd! 

The  awful  nightmare  slips  into  its  night, 

With  cannon-flash  and  noise  of  hurrying  shell : 

O  prisons,  open  for  returning  light, 
The  sun  is  in  the  world,  and  all  is  well ! 

A  LOST  KINGDOM  OF  GODS 

The  vast  Olympian  Heaven  vanishes 

Like  the  frail  wreck  of  clouds  that  travel  slow 

After  a  thunder-storm,  when  eastward  far 

They  sink,  forever  fainter,  lower,  down 

In  evening  dusk  among  dark  mountain  peaks, 

With  vague  unpurposed  thunders,  nerveless  bolts 

Of  dull  forgetful  lightnings ;  and  its  King, 

Who  made  an  earthquake  if  he  bent  his  brows, 

Moves  with  his  kind  in  half -forgotten  dreams, 

Such  as  we  dream,  and,  waking,  find  are  naught, 

But  feel  their  nothing  present  in  all  the  air. 

176 


JOHN   JAMES    PI  ATT 

FARTHER 

Far-off  a  young  State  rises,  full  of  might : 
I  paint  its  brave  escutcheon.     Near  at  hand 
See  the  log-cabin  in  the  rough  clearing  stand ; 
A  woman  by  its  door,  with  steadfast  sight, 
Trustful,  looks  Westward,  where,  uplifted  bright, 
Some  city's  Apparition,  weird  and  grand, 
In  dazzling  quiet  fronts  the  lonely  land, 
With  vast  and  marvelous  structures  wrought  of  light, 
Motionless  on  the  burning  cloud  afar :  — 

The  haunting  vision  of  a  time  to  be, 
After  the  heroic  age  is  ended  here, 
Built  on  the  boundless,  still  horizon's  bar 
By  the  low  sun,  his  gorgeous  prophecy 
Lighting  the  doorway  of  the  pioneer ! 


THE  BOOK  OF  GOLD 

If  I  could  write  a  Book  made  sweet  with  thee. 
And  therefore  sweet  with  all  that  may  be  sweet, 
With  lingering  music  never  more  complete 
Should  turn  its  golden  pages:  each  should  be 
Like  whispering  voices,  beckoning  hands,  and  he 
Who  read  should  follow,  while  his  heart  would  beat 
For  some  new  miracle,  with  most  eager  feet 
Through  loving  labyrinths  of  mystery. 
Temple  and  lighted  home  of  Love  should  seem 
The  Book  wherein  my  love  remember'd  thine : 
There  holiest  visions  evermore  should  gleam, 
Vanishing  wings,  with  wandering  souls  of  sound 
And  breaths  of  incense  from  an  inmost  shrine 
Sought  nearer  evermore  and  never  found. 


177 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

SUNDOWN 

(Extract) 

Low  sounds  of  autumn  creep  along  the  plains, 

Through  the  wide  stillness  of  the  woodlands  brown, 
Where  the  weird  waters  hold 
The  melancholy  gold ; 
The  cattle,  lingering  slow  through  river  lanes, 

Brush  yellowing  vines  that  swing  through  elm-trees 
down. 

On  many  a  silent  circle  slowly  blown, 

The  hawk,  in  sun-flushed  calm  suspended  high, 
'With  careless  trust  of  might 
Slides  wing-wide  through  the  light, — 
Now  golden  through  the  restless  dazzle  shown, 
Now  drooping  down,  now  swinging  up  the  sky. 

With  evening  bells  that  gather,  low  or  loud, 
Some  village,  through  the  distance,  poplar-bound, 
O'er  meadows  silent  grown, 
And  lanes  with  crisp  leaves  strown, 
Lifts  up  one  spire,  aflame,  against  a  cloud 

That  slumbers  eastward,  slow  and  silver-crowned. 


A  VOICE  IN  OHIO  1 
(Extract) 

By  my  quick  firelight  rapt  and  still, 

High  on  this  black  Ohio  hill, 

I  think  of  him  who  crossed  to-day 

The  snow-roofed  boundary  of  our  way, 

(His  book  upon  my  table  lies, 

Look  from  my  wall  his  grave,  sweet  eyes,) 


1  Read  at  the  "Atlantic  Dinner"  in  Boston,  December  17,  1877,  the  seventieth  anniver 
sary  of  John  G.  Whittier's  birthday. 

178 


JOHN   JAMES   PI  ATT 

The  poet,  who,  in  many  a  song, 
Quickening  unnumbered  hearts  so  long, 
Has  breathed  New  England's  spirit  forth 
From  East  to  West,  through  South  and  North- 
Not  the  witch-burning  bigot's  rage, 
That  soiled  her  first  heroic  page, 
But  that  sweet,  tender,  warm  and  good, 
Confirming,  human  brotherhood; 
Religious  with  diviner  scope; 
'Wide-armed  with  charity  and  hope; 
Lighter  of  household  fires  that  bless 
The  fast-withdrawing  wilderness 
(Keeping  old  home-stars  burning  clear 
In  Memory's  holy  atmosphere)  ; 
Sowing  the  waste  with  seeds  of  light; 
Righteous  with  wrath  at  wrongful  might : 
Such  is  thy  better  spirit,  known 
Wherever  Whittier's  songs  have  flown ; — 
Thy  greater,  larger,  nobler  air, 
(New  England,  thus  is  everywhere! 


Blessings  be  with  him  —  praise,  less  worth; 
Why  ask  long-added  hours  of  earth  ? 
Grateful,  if  given,  these  shall  come, 
Birds,  sing  to  the  reaper  going  home, 
Singing  himself  —  his  work  well-done. 
Shine  on  him,  slow,  soft-setting  sun! 
NORTH  BEND,  OHIO. 


TAKING  THE  NIGHT-TRAIN 

A  tremulous  word,  a  lingering  hand,  the  burning 
Of  restless  passion  smouldering  —  so  we  part; 

Ah,  slowly  from  the  dark  the  world  is  turning 
When  midnight  stars  shine  in  a  heavy  heart. 

179 


JOHN   JAMES   PI  ATT 

I  read  the  Milestone,  day  by  day : 
I  yearned  to  cross  the  barren  bound, 

To  know  the  golden  Far-away, 

To  walk  the  new  Enchanted  Ground ! 


THE  THREE  WORK-DAYS 

So  much  to  do,  so  little  done! 
In  sleepless  eyes  I  saw  the  sun ; 
His  beamless  disk  in  darkness  lay, 
The  dreadful  ghost  of  Yesterday ! 

So  little  done,  so  much  to  do ! 
The  morning  shone  on  harvests  new ; 
In  eager  light  I  wrought  my  way, 
And  breathed  the  spirit  of  Today! 

So  much  to  do,  so  little  done! 
The  toil  is  past,  the  rest  begun; 
Though  little  done,  and  much  to  do, 
Tomorrow  Earth  and  Heaven  are  new! 


USE  AND  BEAUTY 

Who  would  have  a  treadmill  measure  every  golden-sanded  hour? 
Who  would  find  a  purpose  busy  deep  in  every  fragrant  flower  ? 

Yet  we  sometimes  (ay,  and  often)  gladly  find  the  two  agree; 
Clasped  together,  Use  and  Beauty  —  in  the  rose  the  honey  bee. 

Factory-bells  in  yonder  city,  wind-blown  music,  far  away 
Waken  soft  enchanted  sleepers  in  the  charmed  breast  to-day ; 

See  the  river's  quiet  water,  lovely  mirror,  slowly  steal, 
Dance  with  sunshine  to  its  task-work ;  —  Beauty  overflows  the 
wheel ! 


181 


POETS   OF   OHIO 


TORCH-LIGHT  IN  FALL-TIME 

I  lift  this  sumach-bough  with  crimson  flare, 

And,  touch'd  with  subtle  pangs  of  dreamy  pain, 
Through  the  dark  wood  a  torch  I  seem  to  bear 
In  Autumn's  funeral  train. 


AT   HOME. 

Far  off  the  sunset-smitten  spires 

Breathe  through  the  wood  their  golden  fires; 

Hither  the  noisy  city  swells 

A  dreamy  tide  of  vesper  bells. 


To  the  quick  brow  Fame  grudges  her  best  wreath, 
While  the  quick  heart  to  enjoy  it  throbs  beneath. 
On  the  dead  forehead's  sculptured  marble  shown, 
Lo,  her  choice  crown  —  its  flowers  are  also  stone. 


182 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PIATT 

SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PIATT,  daughter  of  Talbot 
N.  and  Mary  A.  (Spiers)  Bryan,  and  wife  of  John  James 
Piatt,  was  born  August  11,  1836,  at  Lexington,  Kentucky. 
Her  paternal  grandfather,  Morgan  Bryan,  was  one  of  the  pio 
neer  settlers  of  that  State  —  a  proprietor  of  "Bryan's  Station," 
famous  in  the  old  Indian  wars  —  and  he  was  a  brother-in-law  of 
Daniel  Boone,  whom  the  Bryans  accompanied  from  North  Caro 
lina  into  Kentucky.  Mrs.  Piatt's  childhood  was  passed  near  Ver 
sailles,  Ky.,  where  her  mother,  a  young  and  beautiful  woman, 
died,  in  1844,  when  the  subject  of  this  sketch  was  but  eight  years 
old.  Shortly  thereafter  the  father  placed  Sarah  and  a  younger 
sister  in  the  care  of  their  aunt,  Mrs.  Annie  Boone,  who  lived 
at  Newcastle,  Henry  County.  Here  the  poet  received  her 
school-education  and  here  graduated  from  Henry  Female  Col 
lege,  an  institution  then  under  the  directorship  of  a  cousin  of 
Charles  Sumner.  At  an  early  age  Miss  Bryan  produced  poems 
of  extraordinary  merit,  not  a  few  of  which  were  published  and 
praised  by  George  D.  Prentice,  the  distinguished  editor  of  the 
Louisville  Journal,  who  confidently  predicted  of  their  author  her 
eventual  recognition  as  first  in  rank  of  women  poets  of  America. 

"It  is  since  her  marriage,  in  June,  1861,"  says  Mrs.  Piatt's 
biographer  in  R.  Hi  Stoddard's  Poets'  Homes,  "that  her  more 
individual  characteristics  of  style  have  manifested  themselves, 
especially  the  dramatic  element,  so  delicate,  subtle  and  strong, 
which  asserts  her  intellectual  kinship  with  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Barrett 
Browning." 

Mrs.  Piatt's  poems  are  introspective  and  personal  to  the 
last  degree.  They  depict  the  essential  life  of  woman,  in  its 
various  phases,  voicing  her  ambitions,  longings,  joys,  disappoint 
ments,  doubts,  anguish,  prayer.  The  tone  of  the  verse  is  often 

183 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

sorrowful,  sometimes  deeply  tragic.  "In  the  rush  of  these  hope 
less  tears,"  writes  William  Dean  Howells,  "this  heart-broken 
scorn  of  comfort,  this  unreconcilable  patience  of  grief,  is  the 
drama  of  the  race's  affliction ;  in  the  utter  desolation  of  one 
woman's  sorrow,  the  universal  anguish  of  mortality  is  expressed. 
It  is  not  pessimism;  it  does  not  assume  to  be  any  sort  of  phil 
osophy  or  system ;  it  is  simply  the  bitter  truth,  to  a  phrase,  of 
human  experience  through  which  all  men  must  pass,  and  the 
reader  need  not  be  told  that  such  poems  were  lived  before  they 
were  written." 

Another  admirer  of  Mrs.  Piatt's  masterful  verse,  in  a  critical 
survey  of  the  literature  of  Ohio,  (1903,)  says  of  the  author  and 
her  work:  "Mrs.  Piatt  is  a  woman  of  original  and  exceptional 
genius  —  a  poet  whose  name  shines  in  American  literature 

'Like  some  great  jewel  full  of  fire.' 

She  is  unrivaled,  in  her  province  of  song,  by  any  living  writer 
of  her  sex,  whether  native  to  this  country  or  of  foreign  birth. 
.  .  .  She  is  inimitable  in  her  own  vivid,  bold,  and  suggestive 
invention  and  manner.  Whatever  she  writes  has  meaning  —  and 
the  significance  is  often  deep  —  sometimes  strange  and  elusive  — 
never  commonplace.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Piatt's  rare  artistic  skill  has 
been  admired  by  many  who  appreciate  the  technical  difficulties 
of  the  poetic  craft." 

Equally  emphatic  is  the  praise  accorded  her  genius  by  a  con 
temporary  English  critic,  who,  in  an  article  contributed  to  the 
London  Saturday  Review,  commenting  on  the  volume  of 
select  verse  entitled  "A  Voyage  to  the  Fortunate  Isles,  and 
Other  Poems,"  says:  "Of  all  the  concourse  of  women  singers 
Mrs.  Piatt  is  the  most  racy  and,  in  a  word,  the  most  American. 
.  .  .  The  new  selections  of  her  poems  should  be  most  wel 
come  to  all  who  seek  in  American  poetry  something  more  than  a 
pale  reflex  of  the  British  commodity.  .  .  .  Her  poems,  with 
all  their  whim  and  inconstancy  of  mood,  are  charmingly  sincere, 
artless,  piquant,  and  full  of  quaint  surprise."  And  in  like  com 
mendatory  strain  another  English  critic,  reviewing  the  same 

/ 
184 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 

book  in  the  Pictorial  World  (London),  pronounces  her  verse 
"not  easy  to  equal,  much  less  to  surpass,  on  either  side  of  the 
Atlantic,"  and  characterizes  her  poetical  achievement  in  the  fol 
lowing  words:  "Mrs.  Piatt  studies  no  model,  and  takes  no  pat 
tern  for  her  work;  she  simply  expresses  herself;  hence  her  verse 
is  just  the  transparent  mantle  of  her  individuality.  The  natural 
refinement,  the  ready  sympathy,  the  tender  sentiment,  the  quiet 
grace  of  a  thoroughly  womanly  woman  reveal  themselves  quite 
unconsciously  in  every  poem ;  and  the  musical  quality  of  the  verse 
increases  the  impression  that  the  reader  is  listening  to  the  heart- 
utterances  of  one  of  the  Imogens  or  Mirandas  to  be  met  with 
now  seldom  outside  the  radiant  land  where  Shakespeare's  imagi 
nation  reigns  supreme.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Piatt  will,  we  doubt  not,  as 
her  poems  become  known  to  English  readers,  become  popular, 
or,  we  should  rather  say,  dear  to  a  wide  circle  mainly  composed 
of  members  of  her  own  sex,  for  she  supplies  the  adequate  expres 
sion  for  women  whose  hearts  are  tender  and  true  like  her  own." 


LEAVING  LOVE 

"If  one  should  stay  in  Italy  awhile, 

With  bloom  to  hide  the  dust  beneath  her  feet, 
With  birds  in  love  with  roses  to  beguile 
Her  life  until  its  sadness  grew  too  sweet ; 

"If  she  should,  slowly,  see  some  statue  there, 

Divine  with  whiteness  and  with  coldness,  keep 
A  very  halo  in  the  hovering  air; 

If  she  should  weep  —  because  it  could  not  weep; 

"If  she  should  waste  each  early  gift  of  grace 

In  watching  it  with  rapturous  despair, 
Should  kiss  her  youth  out  on  its  stony  face, 
And  feel  the  grayness  gathering  toward  her  hair: 

185 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

"Then  fancy,  though  it  had  till  now  seemed  blind, 

Blind  to  her  little  fairness,  it  could  see 
How  scarred  of  soul,  how  wan  and  worn  of  mind, 
How  faint  of  form  and  faded,  she  must  be ; 

"If  she  should  moan :  'Ah,  land  of  flower  and  fruit, 

Ah,  fiercely  languid  land,  undo  your  charm ! 

Ah,  song  impassioned,  make  your  music  mute! 

Ah,  bosom,  shake  away  my  clinging  arm!' 

"Then  swiftly  climb  into  the  mountains  near, 
And  set  her  face  forever  toward  the  snow, 
And  feel  the  North  in  chasm  and  cliff,  and  hear 
No  echo  from  the  fairyland  below; 

"If  she  should  feel  her  own  new  loneliness, 

With  every  deep-marked,  freezing  step  she  trod, 
Nearing  (and  in  its  nearness  growing  less) 
The  vast  and  utter  loneliness  of  God; 

"If  back  to  scented  valleys  she  should  call, 
This  woman  that  I   fancy  —  only  she  — 
Would  it  remind  one  statue  there  at  all, 
O  cruel  Silence  in  the  South,  of  —  me  ?" 


A  DOUBT 

It  is  subtle,  and  weary,  and  wide ; 
It  measures  the  world  at  my  side; 

It  touches  the  stars  and  the  sun ; 
It  creeps  with  the  dew  to  my  feet; 

It  broods  on  the  blossoms,  and  none, 
Because  of  its  brooding,  are  sweet; 
It  slides  as  a  snake  in  the  grass, 
Whenever,  wherever  I  pass. 

186 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 

It  is  blown  to  the  South  with  the  bird ; 

At  the  North,  through  the  snow,  it  is  heard; 

With  the  moon  from  the  chasms  of  night 
It  rises,  forlorn  and  afraid ; 

If  I  turn  to  the  left  or  the  right 
I  can  not  forget  or  evade; 
When  it  shakes  at  my  sleep  as  a  dream, 
If  I  shudder,  it  stifles  my  scream. 

It  smiles  from  the  cradle;  it  lies 

On  the  dust  of  the  grave,  and  it  cries 

In  the  winds  and  the  waters ;  it  slips 
In  the  flush  of  the  leaf  to  the  ground; 

It  troubles  the  kiss  at  my  lips ; 
It  lends  to  my  laughter  a  sound; 
It  makes  of  the  picture  but  paint; 
It  unhaloes  the  brow  of  the  saint. 

The  ermine  and  crown  of  the  king, 
The  sword  of  the  soldier,  the  ring 

Of  the  bride,  and  the  robe  of  the  priest, 
The  gods  in  their  prisons  of  stone, 

The  angels  that  sang  in  the  East  — 
Yea,  the  cross  of  my  Lord,  it  has  known ; 
And  wings  there  are  none  that  can  fly 
From  its  shadow  with  me,  till  I  die ! 

TRANSFIGURED 

Almost  afraid  they  led  her  in 

(A  dwarf  more  piteous  none  could  find)  ; 
Withered  as  some  weird  leaf,  and  thin, 

The  woman  was  —  and  wan  and  blind. 

Into  his  "mirror  with  a  smile  — 
Not  vain  to  be  so  fair,  but  glad  — 

The  South-born  painter  looked  the  while, 
With  eyes  than  Christ's  alone  less  sad. 


187 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

"Mother  of  God,"  in  pale  surprise 

He  whispered,  "What  am  I  to  paint !" 
A  voice,  that  sounded  from  the  skies, 
Said  to  him:  "Raphael,  a  saint." 

She  sat  before  him  in  the  sun : 
He  scarce  could  look  at  her,  and  she 

Was  still  and  silent.  .  .  .  "It  is  done," 
He  said, — "Oh,  call  the  world  to  see !" 

Ah,  this  was  she  in  veriest  truth  — 
Transcendent  face  and  haloed  hair. 

The  beauty  of  divinest  youth, 
Divinely  beautiful,  was  there. 

Herself  into  her  picture  passed  — 
Herself  and  not  her  poor  disguise, 

Made  up  of  time  and  dust.  ...  At  last 
One  saw  her  with  the  Master's  eyes. 


THE  THOUGHT  OF  ASTYANAX  BESIDE  IULUS 
(After  reading  Virgil's  Story  of  Andromache  in  Exile.) 

Yes,  all  the  doves  begin  to  moan, — 
But  it  is  not  the  doves  alone. 
Some  trouble,  that  you  never  heard 
In  any  tree  from  breath  of  bird, 
That  reaches  back  to  Eden  lies 
Between  your  wind-flower  and  my  eyes. 

I  fear  it  was  not  well,  indeed, 

Upon  so  sad  a  day  to  read 

So  sad  a  story.    But  the  day 

Is  full  of  blossoms,  do  you  say, — 

And  how  the  sun  does  shine?    I  know. 

These  things  do  make  it  sadder,  though. 


188 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 

You'd  cry,  if  you  were  not  a  boy, 
About  this  mournful  tale  of  Troy? 
Then  do  not  laugh  at  me,  if  I  — 
Who  am  too  old,  you  know,  to  cry  — 
Just  hide  my  face  a  while  from  you, 
Down  here  among  these  drops  of   dew. 

.     .     .     Must  I  for  sorrow  look  so  far? 
This  baby  headed  like  a  star, 
Afraid  of  Hector's  horse-hair  plume 
(His  one  sweet  child,  whose  bitter  doom 
So  piteous  seems  —  oh,  tears  and  tears  ! — ) 
Has  he  been  du'st  three  thousand  years? 

Yet  when  I  see  his  mother  fold 

The  pretty  cloak  she  stitched  with  gold, 

Around  another  boy,  and  say: 

"He  would  be  just  your  age  to-day, 

With  just  your  hands,  your  eyes,  your  hair"- 

Her  grief  is  more  than  I  can  bear. 


NO  HELP 

When  will  the  flowers  grow  there?     I  cannot  tell. 

Oh,  many  and  many  a  rain  will  beat  there  first, 
Stormy  and  dreary,  such  as  never  fell 

Save  when  the  heart  was  breaking  that  had  nursed 
Something  most  dear  a  little  while,  and  then 
Murmured  at  giving  God  his  own  again. 

The  woods  were  full  of  violets,  I  know; 

And  some  wild  sweet-briers  grew  so  near  the  place : 
Their  time  is  not  yet  come.    Dead  leaves  and  snow 

Must  cover  first  the  darling  little  face 
From  these  wet  eyes,  forever  fixed  upon 
Your  last  still  cradle,  O  most  precious  one! 

189 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Is  he  not  with  his  Father?     So  I  trust. 

Is  he  not  His?    Was  he  not  also  mine? 
His  mother's  empty  arms  yearn  toward  the  dust. 

Heaven  lies  too  high,  the  soul  is  too  divine. 
I  wake  at  night  and  miss  him  from  my  breast, 
And  —  human  words  can  never  say  the  rest. 

Safe?    But  out  of  the  world,  out  of  my  sight! 

My  way  to  him  through  utter  darkness  lies. 
I  am  gone  blind  with  weeping,  and  the  light  — 

If  there  be  light  —  is  shut  inside  the  skies. 
Think  you,  to  give  my  bosom  back  his  breath, 
I  would  not  kiss  him  from  the  peace  called  Death? 

And  do  I  want  a  little  Angel?     No, 

I  want  my  Baby  — •  with  such  piteous  pain, 

That  were  this  bitter  life  thrice  bitter,  oh! 
I  could  not  choose  but  take  him  back  again. 

God  cannot  help  me,  for  God  cannot  break 

His  own  dark  Law  —  for  my  poor  sorrow's  sake. 


My  little  child,  so  sweet  a  voice  might  wake 
So  sweet  a  sleeper  for  so  sweet  a  sake. 
Calling  your  buried  brother  back  to  you, 
You  laugh  and  listen  —  till  I  listen  too! 

.     .     .  Why  does  he  listen?     It  may  be  to  hear 
Sounds  too  divine  to  reach  my  troubled  ear. 
Why  does  he  laugh?    It  may  be  he  can  see 
The  face  that  only  tears  can  hide  from  me. 

Poor  baby  faith  —  so  foolish  or  so  wise : 

The  name  I  shape  out  of  forlornest  cries 

He  speaks  as  with  a  bird's  or  blossom's  breath. 

How  fair  the  knowledge  is  that  knows  not  Death ! 

190 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 


.     .     .  Ah,  fools  and  blind  —  through  all  the  piteous  years 
Searchers  of  stars  and  graves  —  how  many  seers, 
Calling  the  dead,  and  seeking  for  a  sign, 
Have  laughed  and  listened,  like  this  child  of  mine? 


A  PIQUE  AT  PARTING 

Why,  sir,  as  to  that  —  I  did  not  know  it  was  time  for  the  moon 

to  rise, 
(So,  the  longest  day  of  them  all  can  end,  if  we  will  have 

patience  with  it.) 
One  woman  can  hardly  care,  I  think,  to  remember  another  one's 

eyes, 

And  —  the  bats  are  beginning  to  flit. 
.     .     .     We  hate  one  another?    It  may  be  true. 
What  else  do  you  teach  us  to  do? 
Yea,  verily,  to  love  you. 

My  lords  —  and  gentlemen  —  are  you  sure  that  after  we  love 

quite  all 
There  is  in  your  noble  selves  to  be  loved,  no  time  on  our  hands 

will  remain? 
Why,  an  hour  a  day  were  enough  for  this.    We  may  watch  the 

'wild  leaves  fall 

On  the  graves  you  forget.     .     .     .     It  is  plain 
That  you  were  not  pleased  when  she  said  —  Just  so ; 
Still,  what  do  we  want,  after  all,  you  know, 
But  room  for  a  rose  to  grow? 

You  leave  us  the  baby  to  kiss,  perhaps;  the  bird  in  the  cage 

to  sing; 
The  flower  on  the  window,  the  fire  on  the  hearth   (and  the 

fires  in  the  heart)    to  tend. 
When  the  wandering  hand  that  would   reach   somewhere  has 

become  the  Slave  of  the  Ring, 
You  give  us  —  an  image  to  mend; 

191 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Then  shut  with  a  careless  smile,  the  door  — 
(There's  dew  or  frost  on  the  path  before;) 
We  are  safe  inside.     What  more? 

If  the  baby  should  moan,  or  the  bird  sit  hushed,  or  the  flower 

*fade   out  —  what   then  ? 
Ah?  the  old,  old  feud  of  mistress  and  maid  would  be  left 

though  the  sun  went  out? 
You  can  number  the  stars  and  call   them  by  names,  and,   as 

•men,  you  can  wring  from  men 
The  world  —  for  they  own  it,  no  doubt. 
We,  not  being  eagles,  are  doves?    Why,  yes, 
We  must  hide  in  the  leaves,  I  guess, 
And  coo  down  our  loneliness. 

God  meant  us  for  saints  ?    Yes  —  in  Heaven.    Well,  I,  for  one, 

am  content 
To  trust  Him  through  darkness  and  space  to  the  end  —  if 

an  end  there  shall  be; 
But,  as  to  His  meanings,  I  fancy  I  never  knew  quite  what  He 

meant. 

And  —  why,  what  were  you  saying  to  me 
Of  the  saints  —  or  that  saint  ?    It  is  late ; 
The  lilies  look  weird  by  the  gate. 
.     .     .     Ah,  sir,  as  to  that  —  we  will  wait. 


CAPRICE  AT  HOME 

No,  I  will  not  say  good-by  — 
Not  good-by,  nor  anything. 

He  is  gone.  ...  I  wonder  why 
Lilacs  are  not  sweet  this  spring. 
How  that  tiresome  bird  will  sing ! 

I  might  follow  him  and  say 

Just  that  he  forgot  to  kiss 
Baby,   when  he  went  away. 

192 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 

Everything  I  want  I  miss. 
Oh,  a  precious  world  is  this ! 

.  .  .  What  if  night  came  and  not  he? 

Something  might  mislead  his  feet. 
Does  the  moon  rise  late  ?    Ah  me ! 

There  are  things  that  he  might  meet. 

Now  the  rain  begins  to  beat : 

So  it  will  be  dark.    The  bell  ?  — 
Some  one  some  one  loves  is  dead. 

Were  it  he  —  !    I  cannot  tell 
Half  the  fretful  words  I  said, 
Half  the  fretful  tears  I  shed. 

Dead  ?    And  but  to  think  of  death !  — 
Men  might  bring  him  through  the  gate : 

Lips  that  have  not  any  breath, 

Eyes  that  stare  —  And  I  must  wait ! 
Is  it  time,  or  is  it  late? 

I  was  wrong,  and  wrong,  and  wrong; 

I  will  tell  him,  oh,  be  sure ! 
If  the  heavens  are  builded  strong, 

Love  shall  therein  be  secure ; 

Love  like  mine  shall  there  endure. 

.  .  .  Listen,  listen  —  that  is  he ! 

I'll  not  speak  to  him,  I  say. 
If  he  choose  to  say  to  me, 

"I  was  all  to  blame  today ; 

Sweet,  forgive  me,"  why  —  I  may ! 


193 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

THE  HOUSE  BELOW  THE  HILL 

You  ask  me  of  the  farthest  star, 

Whither  your  thought  can  climb  at  will, 

Forever  questioning  child  of  mine. 

I  fear  it  is  not  half  so  far 
As  is  the  house  below  the  hill, 

Where  one  poor  lamp  begins  to  shine, — 

The  lamp  that  is  of  death  the  sign. 

Has  it  indeed  been  there  for  years, 

In  rain  and  snow,  with  ruined  roof 
For  God  to  look  through,  day  and  night, 
At  man's  despair  and  woman's  tears, 

While  with  myself  I  stood  aloof, 
As  one  by  some  enchanted  right 
Held  high  from  any  ghastly  sight? 

.  .  .  One  of  my  children  lightly  said: 

"Oh  nothing,  (Why  must  we  be  still?) 
Only  the  people  have  to  cry 
Because  the  woman's  child  is  dead 

There  in  the  house  below  the  hill. 
I  wish  that  we  could  see  it  fly ;  — 
It  has  gold  wings,  and  that  is  why!" 

Gold  wings  it  has  ?     I  only  know 
What  wasted  little  hands  it  had, 

That  reached  to  me  for  pity,  but 

Before  I  thought  to  give  it  —  oh, 

On  earth's  last  rose-bud,  faint  and  sad, 

Less  cold  than  mine  had  been,  they  shut. 

Sharper  than  steel  some  things  should  cut ! 

...  I  thought  the  mother  showed  to  me, 

With  something  of  a  noble  scorn 
(When  morning  mocked  with  bird  and  dew), 

194 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 

That  brief  and  bitter  courtesy 

Which  awes  us  in  the  lowliest  born. 
Ah,  soul,  to  thine  own  self  be  true;  — 
God's  eyes,  grown  human,  look  thee  through ! 

"We  need  no  help  —  we  needed  it. 

You  have  not  come  in  time,  and  so 
The  women  here  did  everything. 
You  did  not  know  ?    You  did  not  know !" 

I  surely  saw  the  dark  brows  knit. 
—  To  let  the  living  die  for  bread, 
Then  bring  fair  shrouds  to  hide  the  dead! 

What  time  I  cried  with  Rachel's  cry, 
I  wondered  that  I  could  not  wring, 

While  sitting  at  the  grave  forlorn, 

Compassion  from  yon  alien  sky, 
That  knows  not  death  nor  anything 

That  troubles  man  of  woman  born, 

Save  that  he  wounded  Christ  with  thorn. 

My  sorrow  had  the  right  to  find 

Immortal  pity?    I  could  sit, 
Not  hearing  at  my  very  feet 
The  utter  wailing  of  my  kind, 

And  dream  my  dream  high  over  it ! 

0  human  heart !  what  need  to  beat, 
If  nothing  save  your  own  is  sweet? 

Ah  me,  that  fluttering  flower  and  leaf, 
That  weird,  wan  moon  and  pitiless  sun, 

And  my  own  shadow  in  the  grass 

Should  hide  from  me  this  common  grief ! 
Was  I  not  dust?    What  had  I  done? 

In  that  fixed  face,  as  in  a  glass, 

1  saw  myself  to  judgment  pass ! 


195 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

SAD  WISDOM  — FOUR  YEARS  OLD 

"Well,  but  some  time  I  will  be  dead ; 

Then  you  will  love  me,  too !" 
Ah !  mouth  so  wise  for  mouth  so  red, 

I  wonder  how  you  knew. 
(Closer,  closer,  little  brown  head  — 
Not  long  can  I  keep  you ! ) 

Here,  take  this  one  poor  bud  to  hold 
Take  this  long  kiss  and  last; 

Love  cannot  loosen  one  fixed  fold 
Of  the  shroud  that  holds  you  fast  — 

Never,  never;  oh,  cold,  so  cold! 
All  that  was  sweet  is  past. 

Oh,  tears,  and  tears,  and  foolish  tears, 
Dropped  on  a  grave  somewhere ! 

Does  not  the  child  laugh  in  my  ears 
What  time  I  feign  despair? 

Whisper,  whisper  —  I  know  he  hears ; 
Yet  this  is  hard  to  bear. 

O  world,  with  your  wet  face  above 
One  veil  of  dust,  thick-drawn ! 

O  weird  voice  of  the  hapless  dove, 
Broken  for  something  gone! 

Tell  me,  tell  me,  when  will  we  love 
The  thing  the  sun  shines  on? 

"TO  BE  DEAD" 

If  I  should  have  void  darkness  in  my  eyes 
While  there  were  violets  in  the  sun  to  see; 

If  I  should  fail  to  hear  my  child's  sweet  cries, 
Or  any  bird's  voice  in  our  threshold  tree  ; 

196 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 

If  I  should  cease  to  answer  love  or  wit: 

Blind,  deaf,  or  dumb,  how  bitter  each  must  be ! 
Blind,  deaf,  or  dumb  —  I  will  not  think  of  it ! 
.     .     .     Yet  the  night  comes  when  I  shall  be  all  three. 


A  LOOK  INTO  THE  GRAVE 

I  look,  through  tears,  into  the  dust  to  find 

What  manner  of  rest  man's  only  rest  may  be. 

The  darkness  rises  up  and  smites  me  blind. 
The  darkness  —  is  there  nothing  more  to  see  ? 

Oh,  after  flood,  and  fire,  and  famine,  and 
The  hollow  watches  we  are  made  to  keep 

In  our  forced  marches  over  sea  and  land  — 
I  wish  we  had  a  sweeter  place  to  sleep. 


THE  HIGHEST  MOUNTAIN 

I  know  of  a  higher  Mountain.    Well? 

"Do  the  flowers  grow  on  it?"    No,  not  one. 
"What  is  its  name?"     But  I  can  not  tell. 

"Where  ?"     Nowhere  under  the  sun! 

"Is  it  under  the  moon,  then  ?"  No,  the  light 
Has  never  touch'd  it,  and  never  can; 

It  is  fashion'd  and  form'd  of  night,  of  night 
Too  dark  for  the  eyes  of  man. 

Yet  I  sometimes  think,  if  my  Faith  had  proved 
As  a  grain  of  mustard  seed  to  me, 

I  could  say  to  this  Mountain :  "Be  thou  removed, 
And  be  thou  cast  in  the  sea!" 


197 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

LIFE    AND  DEATH 

If  I  had  chosen,  my  tears  had  all  been  dews; 

I  would  have  drawn  a  bird's  or  blossom's  breath, 
Nor  outmoaned  yonder  dove.   I  did  not  choose  — 

And  here  is  Life  for  me,  and  there  is  Death. 

Ay,  here  is  Life.    Bloom  for  me,  violet; 

Whisper  me,  Love,  all  things  that  are  not  true ; 
Sing,  nightingale  and  lark,  till  I   forget  — 

For  here  is  Life,  and  I  have  need  of  you. 

So,  there  is  Death.   Fade,  violet,  from  the  land ; 

Cease  from  your  singing,  nightingale  and  lark; 
Forsake  me,  Love,  for  I  without  your  hand 

Can  find  my  way  more  surely  to  the  dark. 


"I  WANT  IT  YESTERDAY" 

"Come,  take  the  flower, —  it  is  not  dead, 

It  stayed  all  night  out  in  the  dew." 
"I  will  not  have  it  now,"  he  said ; 
"I  want  it   yesterday,  I  do." 

"It  is  as  red,  it  is  as  sweet " — 

With  angry  tears  he  turned  away, 
Then  flung  it  fiercely  at  his  feet, 
And  said,  "I  want  it  —  yesterday." 

As  sullen  and  as  quick  of  grief, 

Sometimes  a  lovelier  flower  than  this 

I  crush  forever,  scent  and  leaf; 
Then  scent  and  leaf  forever  miss. 

It  keeps  its  blush,  it  keeps  its  breath, 
It  keeps  its  form  unchanged,  but  I 

See  in  its  beauty  only  death; 

Then  drop  it  in  the  dust, —  and  why? 

198 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 

And  why?    Ah,  Hand  divine,  I  know, — 
Forgive  my  childish  pain,  I  pray, — 

Today  your  flower  is  fair,  but  oh! 
I  only  want  it  —  yesterday! 


IN  DOUBT 

Through  dream  and  dusk  a  frightened  whisper  said: 
'Lay  down  the  world:  the  one  you  love  is  dead." 
In  the  near  waters,  without  any  cry 
I   sank,  therefore  —  glad,  oh  so  glad,  to  die! 

Far  on  the  shore,  with  sun,  and  dove,  and  dew, 

And  apple-flowers,  I  suddenly  saw  you. 
Then  —  was  it  kind  or  cruel  that  the  sea 
Held  back  my  hands,  and  kissed  and  clung  to  me  ? 


SAY  THE  SWEET  WORDS 

Say  the  sweet  words,  say  them  soon ; 

You  have  said  the  bitter  — 
Changed  to  tears,  by  this  dim  moon 

You  may  see  them  glitter. 

'Say  the  sweet  words  soon,  I  pray  — 
Mine  is  piteous  pleading; 

Haste  to  draw  the  steel  away, 

Though  the  wound  keep  bleeding. 


FOR  ANOTHER'S  SAKE 

Sweet,  sweet?    My  child,  some  sweeter  word  than  sweet, 
Some  lovelier  word  than  love,  I  want  for  you. 

Who  says  the  world  is  bitter,  while  your  feet 
Are  left  among  the  lilies  and  the  dew? 

199 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

.     .     .     Ah?    So  some  other  has,  this  night,  to  fold 
Such  hands  as  his,  and  drop  some  precious  head 

From  off  her  breast  as  full  of  baby-gold  ? 
I,  for  her  grief,  will  not  be  comforted. 

LITTLE  CHRISTIAN'S  TROUBLE 

His  wet  cheeks  looked  as  they  had  worn, 
Each,  with  its  rose,  a  thorn, 

Set  there  (my  boy,  you  understand?) 
By  his  own  brother's  hand: 

"Look  at  my  cheek.     What  shall  I  do?  — 
You  know  I  have  but  two !" 

His  mother  answered,  as  she  read 
What  my  Lord  Christ  had  said, 

(While  tears  began  to  drop  like  rain:) 
"Go,  turn  the  two  again." 

MY  WEDDING  RING 

My  heart  stirr'd  with  its  golden  thrill 
And  flutter'd  closer  up  to  thine, 

In  that  blue  morning  of  the  June 

When  first  it  clasp'd  thy  love  and  mine. 

In  it  I  see  the  little  room, 

Rose-dim  and  hush'd  with  lilies  still, 

Where  the  old  silence  of  my  life 
Turn'd  into  music  with  "I  will." 

Oh,  I  would  have  my  folded  hands 
Take  it  into  the  dust  with  me : 

All  other  little  things  of  mine 

I'd  leave  in  the  bright  world  with  thee. 


200 


SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN  PI  ATT 


TO 


Sweet  World,  if  you  will  hear  me  now 
I  may  not  own  a  sounding  Lyre 

And  wear  my  name  upon  my  brow 
Like  some  great  jewel  full  of  fire. 

But  let  me,  singing,  sit  apart, 
In  tender  quiet  with  a  few, 

And  keep  my  fame  upon  my  heart, 
A  little  blush-rose  wet  with  dew. 


201 


WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE 

WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE,  son  of  William  and 
Hannah  (Baird)  Venable,  was  born  April  29,  1836, 
in  a  log  house  built  by  his  father  on  a  farm  not  far 
from  Waynesville,  Warren  County,  Ohio.  His  ancestry,  on  the 
paternal  side,  was  English,  remotely  Norman,  while,  on  the 
mother's  side,  it  was  Scotch-English,  with  a  qualifying  strain 
of  Dutch.  In  the  boy's  sixth  year,  his  parents  with  their  four 
children  —  John,  Newell,  Henry,  and  Cynthia  —  removed  to  a 
homestead  located  near  the  present  "Venable  Station,"  within  a 
short  distance  of  Ridgeville,  a  hamlet  on  the  Cincinnati  and 
Dayton  turnpike,  about  seven  miles  north  of  Lebanon,  Ohio. 

Stimulated  by  a  home  environment  of  books  and  culture, 
Henry  early  outgrew  the  limits  of  learning  in  the  Ridgeville 
country  school,  where,  however,  besides  studying  the  branches 
commonly  taught  at  the  time  in  rural  districts,  he  gained,  under 
competent  guidance,  a  familiar  objective  knowledge  of  physics, 
botany,  and  zoology.  His  reading,  even  in  boyhood,  when  he 
assisted  on  his  father's  farm  in  the  summer  season  and  went 
to  the  district  school  in  the  winter,  was  diverse  in  character  and 
unusual  in  amount,  ranging,  in  a  desultory  fashion,  from  the 
Bible  and  such  formidable  tomes  as  Rollin's  Ancient  History, 
Plutarch's  Lives,  Volney's  Ruins,  the  Works  of  Josephus,  and 
Dick's  Christian  Philosopher,  to  Robinson  Crusoe,  the  Arabian 
Nights,  Gulliver's  Travels,  Don  Quixote,  and  the  popular  novels 
of  Scott,  Bulwer,  Dickens,  and  Cooper.  Equally  discursive,  at 
this  formative  period,  were  his  readings  in  verse,  which  intro 
duced  him  to  the  works  of  a  number  of  British  poets,  including 
Burns,  Thomson,  Pope,  Pollok,  Young,  Cowper,  Byron,  Milton, 
and  Shakespeare.  Of  the  American  poets,  Bryant  and  Long 
fellow  were  his  favorites.  From  Thomson's  "The  Seasons" 
he  derived  his  first  inspiration  to  write  in  metrical  form. 

202 


WILLIAM  HENRY  J/ENABLE 

Eager  in  the  pursuit  of  higher  education,  young  Venable 
left  his  rural  home  to  seek  the  advantages  of  collegiate  train 
ing.  Under  special  private  instruction,  from  Dr.  Alfred  Hoi- 
brook,  Dr.  William  Downs  Henkle,  and  others,  as  well  as  in 
the  South- Western  Normal  School,  at  Lebanon,  Ohio,  (with 
which  institution  he  was  connected  for  several  years,  first  as  a 
student  and  afterwards  as  a  teacher,)  he  rapidly  acquired  an 
academic  knowledge  of  science,  language,  literature,  and  history, 
soon  winning  distinction  by  his  versatile  scholarship.  While 
yet  in  his  teens  he  was  a  frequent  contributor  to  local  newspapers, 
and  he  began  those  original  historical  investigations  which  have 
since  established  his  reputation  as  an  authority  in  all  that  per 
tains  to  the  literary  annals  of  the  Ohio  Valley. 

In  1864  he  received  from  De  Pauw  University  the  hon 
orary  degree  of  Master  of  Arts,  and  in  1886,  from  Ohio  Univer 
sity,  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws. 

Dr.  Venable  has  spent  his  entire  life,  excepting  for  a  single 
year,  in  Ohio,  where,  with  tongue  and  pen,  he  has  devoted  him 
self  to  the  higher  interests  of  his  time,  working  especially  to 
promote  the  cause  of  liberal  education  and  literary  culture.  In 
addition  to  his  manifold  labors  as  author  and  lecturer,  he  has 
been  identified  with  several  public  and  private  schools  and  with 
many  teachers'  institutes  and  associations.  After  his  experience 
in  the  Lebanon  Normal  School,  where  he  studied  and  taught, 
intermittently,  from  1855  to  1861,  he  was  called  to  the  principal- 
ship  of  Jennings  Academy,  Vernon,  Indiana,  which  he  conducted 
for  about  a  year.  During  his  residence  in  the  Hoosier  State 
he  took  an  active  part  in  educational  affairs,  and  was  one  of  the 
editors  of  the  Indiana  School  Journal.  He  was  married,  on 
December  30,  1861,  in  Indianapolis,  to  Miss  Mary  Ann  Vater, 
the  youngest  daughter  of  Thomas  and  Eleanor  (Palmer)  Vater, 
both  of  whom  were  of  English  parentage  and  nativity,  being 
born  and  educated  in  London,  whence  in  1832,  prompted  by  a 
romantic  spirit  of  adventure,  they  came  to  America  to  seek  their 
fortunes  in  the  "Great  West."  In  September,  1862,  through 
the  influence  of  Dr.  John  Hancock,  Mr.  Venable  was  induced  to 

203 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

come  to  Cincinnati,  where  he  entered  upon  a  more  extended 
field  of  professional  work,  in  the  celebrated  Chickering  Institute, 
a  classical  and  scientific  academy  with  which  he  was  connected 
for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  of  which,  in  1881,  he 
became  the  principal  and  proprietor.  Disposing  of  his  interest 
in  this  school  in  1886,  he  devoted  the  next  three  years  to  the 
completion  of  long-delayed  literary  undertakings,  and  to  lec 
turing  in  many  cities  and  towns  in  Ohio,  Indiana,  Pennsylvania, 
Kentucky,  and  West  Virginia.  From  1889  to  1900  he  was 
actively  engaged  in  public  educational  work  in  the  Queen  City, 
where,  in  addition  to  his  radical  and  efficacious  reformatory 
labors  as  director  of  the  department  of  English,  first  in  Hughes, 
and  later  in  Walnut  Hills  High  School,  he  exercised  a  far-reaching 
influence  upon  educational  ideals  and  methods,  through  the  pub 
lication  of  a  volume  of  trenchant  pedagogical  essays,  entitled 
"Let  Him  First  Be  a  Man,"  and  of  three  unique  high  school 
text-books,  presenting,  respectively,  annotated  selections  from 
the  poetry  of  Burns,  of  Byron,  and  of  Wordsworth. 

Since  his  retirement  from  active  professional  life  in  1900, 
Mr.  Venable  has  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  literature,  hav 
ing  produced  within  this  recent  period  several  important  works 
in  biography,  fiction,  and  verse. 

The  author  has  resided,  since  1875,  at  "Diana  Place,"  a  subur 
ban  homestead  on  the  highlands  of  eastern  Cincinnati,  overlook 
ing  the  Ohio  River.  "A  very  pleasant  glimpse  of  the  Venable 
home,  at  Mount  Tusculum,"  writes  Henry  Howe  in  his  Historical 
Collections  of  Ohio,  1888,  "is  given  by  the  Hon.  Coates  Kinney, 
the  author  of  the  far-famed  lyric,  'Rain  on  the  Roof:'  'Just 
east  of  Cincinnati,  on  the  Little  Miami  Railroad,  there  is  a 
picturesque  suburb  named  (by  some  admirer  of  Cicero)  Tus 
culum.  Leaving  the  station,  climbing  the  up-hill  street  of  the 
town,  turning  into  the  wood,  passing  down  through  a  glen, 
winding  about,  and  again  climbing  by  stone  steps  up  gentle 
slopes,  across  rustic  plank  bridges,  under  overhanging  trees, 
you  come  to  the  poet's  home  —  a  commodious  country  house 
almost  on  top  of  the  hill,  looking  down  over  all  the  landscape  of 

204 


WILLIAM  HENRY  YEN  ABLE 

slopes,  and  glens,  and  ravines,  and  woods  that  you  have  just 
come  through.  This  is  the  poet's  home;  and  a  delightful  home 
it  is,  full  of  love  and  poetry  and  children.  Venable  is,  in  the 
city,  a  man  of  business  in  the  daytime,  but  a  dreamer  here  on 
the  hills  at  night.  An  evening  with  him  there  in  his  cozy  library, 
overlooking  the  'brown  ravine/  is  a  rest  and  refreshment  not 
soon  to  be  forgotten.' " 

MY  CATBIRD 

A  Capriccio 

Nightingale  I   never  heard, 
Nor  the  skylark,  poet's  bird ; 
But  there  is  an  aether-winger 
So  surpasses  every  singer, 
(Though  unknown  to  lyric  fame,) 
That  at  morning,  or  at  nooning, 
When  I  hear  his  pipe  a-tuning, 
Down  I  fling  Keats,  Shelley,  Wordsworth, — 
What  are  all  their  songs  of  birds  worth? 
All  their  soaring 
Souls'  outpouring? 
When  my  Mimus  Carolinensis, 
(That's  his  Latin  name,) 
When  my  warbler  wild  commences 
Song's  hilarious  rhapsody, 
Just  to  please  himself  and  me ! 

Primo  Cantante ! 

Scherzo !     Andante ! 

Piano,  pianissimo ! 

Presto,   prestissimo ! 

Hark !  are  there  nine  birds  or  ninety  and  nine  ? 

And  now  a  miraculous  gurgling  gushes 

Like  nectar  from  Hebe's  Olympian  bottle, 

The  laughter  of  tune  from  a  rapturous  throttle ! 

Such  melody  must  be  a  hermit-thrush's ! . 

But  that  other  caroler,  nearer, 

205 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Outrivaling  rivalry  with  clearer 

Sweetness  incredibly  fine! 

Is  it  oriole,  redbird,  or  bluebird, 

Or  some  strange,  un-Auduboned  new  bird? 

All  one,  sir,  both  this  bird  and  that  bird, 

The  whole  flight  are  all  the  same  catbird! 

The  whole  visible  and  invisible  choir  you  see 

On  one  lithe  twig  of  yon  green  tree. 

Flitting,   feathery  Blondel! 

Listen  to  his  rondel ! 

To  his  lay  romantical! 

To  his   sacred  canticle ! 

Hear   him   lilting, 

See  him  tilting 

His  saucy  head  and  tail,  and  fluttering 

While    uttering 

All  the  difficult  operas  under  the  sun 

Just  for  fun; 

Or  in  tipsy  revelry, 

Or  at  love  devilry, 

Or,  disdaining  his  divine  gift  and  art, 

Like  an  inimitable  poet 

Who  captivates  the  world's  heart 

And  don't  know  it. 

Hear  him  lilt! 

See  him  tilt! 

Then  suddenly  he  stops, 

Peers  about,  flirts,  hops, 

As  if  looking  where  he  might  gather  up 

The   wasted   ecstacy   just  spilt 

From  the  quivering  cup 

Of  his  bliss  overrun. 

Then,  as  in  mockery  of  all 

The  tuneful  spells  that  e'er  did  fall 

From  vocal  pipe,  or  evermore  shall  rise, 

He  snarls,  and  mews,  and  flies. 

206 


WILLIAM  HENRY  V 'EN ABLE 
THE  FOUNDERS  OF  OHIO 

April,   1888 

The  footsteps  of  a  hundred  years 

Have  echoed  since  o'er  Braddock's  Road 

Bold  Putnam  and  the  Pioneers 
Led  History  the  way  they  strode. 

On  wild  Monongahela  stream 

They  launched  the  Mayflower  of  the  West, 
A  perfect  State  their  civic  dream, 

A  new  New  World  their  pilgrim  quest. 

When  April  robed  the  Buckeye  trees 
Muskingum's  bosky  shore  they  trod; 

They  pitched  their  tents  and  to  the  breeze 
Flung  freedom's  banner,  thanking  God. 

As  glides  the  Oyo's  solemn  flood 
So  fleeted  their  eventful  years ; 

Resurgent  in  their  children's  blood, 
They  still  live  on  —  the  Pioneers. 

Their  fame  shrinks  not  to  names  and  dates 
On  votive  stone,  the  prey  of  time :  — 

Behold  where  monumental  States  * 
Immortalize  their  lives  sublime! 


THE  TEACHER'S  DREAM 

The  weary  teacher  sat  alone 
While   twilight   gathered  on; 

And  not  a  sound  was  heard  around, 
The  boys  and  girls  were  gone. 


1  The  five  states  formed  from  the  territory  north-west  of  the  Ohio  River,  (known  as  'the 
Ohio  Country',)  were  admitted  into  the  Union  in  the  following  order:  Ohio,  1803;  Indiana 
1816;  Illinois,  1818;  Michigan,  1837;  Wisconsin,  1848. 

207 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

The  weary  teacher  sat  alone, 
Unnerved  and  pale  was  he; 

Bowed  by  a  yoke  of  care  he  spoke 
In  sad  soliloquy: 

"Another  round,  another  round 

Of  labor  thrown  away, 
Another  chain  of  toil  and  pain 
Dragged  through  a  tedious  day. 

"Of  no  avail  is  constant  zeal, 

Love's  sacrifice  is  loss, 
The  hopes  of  morn,  so  golden,  turn, 
Each  evening,  into  dross. 

"I  squander  on  a  barren  field 

My  strength,  my  life,  my  all; 

The  seeds  I  sow  will  never  grow, 

They  perish  where  they  fall." 

He  sighed,  and  low  upon  his  hands 

His  aching  brow  he  prest, 
And  like  a  spell  upon  him  fell 

A  soothing  sense  of  rest. 

Ere  long  he  lifted  up  his  face, 
When,  on  his  startled  view, 

The  room  by  strange  and  sudden  change 
To  vast  proportions  grew! 

It  seemed  a  senate-hall,  and  one 
Addressed  a  listening  throng; 

Each  burning  word  all  bosoms  stirred, 
Applause  rose  loud  and  long. 

The  wildered  teacher  thought  he  knew 

The  speaker's  voice  and  look, 
"And  for  his  name,"  said  he,  "the  same 
Is  in  my  record-book." 


208 


WILLIAM  HENRY  V 'EN ABLE 

The  stately  senate-hall  dissolved, 

A  church  rose  in  its  place, 
Wherein  there  stood  a  man  of  God, 

Dispensing  words  of  grace. 

And  though  he  heard  the  solemn  voice, 

And  saw  the  beard  of  gray, 
The  teacher's  thought  was  strangely  wrought : 

"My  yearning  heart  today 

"Wept  for  that  youth  whose  wayward  will 

Against  persuasion  strove, 
Compelling  force,  love's  last  resource, 
To  establish  laws  of  love." 

The  church,  a  phantom,  vanished  soon; 

What  apparition  then? 
In  classic  gloom  of  alcoved  room 

An  author  plied  his  pen. 

"My  idlest  lad !"  the  teacher  said, 

Filled  with  a  new  surprise, 
"Shall  I  behold  his  name  enrolled 

Among  the  great  and  wise?" 

The  vision  of  a  cottage  home 
Was  now  through  tears  descried: 

A  mother's  face  illumed  the  place 
Her   influence   sanctified. 

"A  miracle !  a  miracle ! 

This  matron,  well  I  know, 
Was  but  a  wild  and  careless  child 
Not  half  an  hour  ago. 

"Now,  when  she  to  her  children  speaks 

Of  duty's  golden  rule, 
Her  lips  repeat,  in  accents  sweet, 
My  words  to  her  at  school." 


209 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Dim  on  the  teacher's  brain  returned 
The  humble  school-room  old; 

Upon  the  wall  did  darkness  fall, 
The  evening  air  was  cold. 

'A  dream!"  the  sleeper,  waking,  said; 

Then  paced  along  the  floor, 
And,  whistling  slow  and  soft  and  low, 
He  locked  the  school-house  door. 

His  musing  heart  was  reconciled 

To  love's  divine  delays: 
'The  bread  forth  cast  returns  at  last, 
Lo,  after  many  days !" 

1856 


NATIONAL  SONG 

America,  my  own ! 

Thy  spacious  grandeurs  rise 
Faming  the  proudest  zone 

Pavilioned  by  the  skies; 
Day's  flying  glory  breaks 

Thy  vales  and  mountains  o'er, 
And  gilds  thy  streams  and  lakes 

From  ocean  shore  to  shore. 

Praised  be  thy  wood  and  wold, 

Thy  corn  and  wine  and  flocks, 
The  yellow  blood  of  gold 

Drained  from  thy  canon  rocks; 
Thy  trains  that  shake  the  land, 

Thy  ships  that  plow  the  main, 
Triumphant   cities   grand 

Roaring  with  noise  of  gain. 

210 


WILLIAM  HENRY  FEN  ABLE 

Earth's  races  look  to  Thee: 

The  peoples  of  the  world 
Thy  risen  splendors  see 

And  thy  wide  flag  unfurled ; 
Thy  sons,  in  peace  or  war, 

That  emblem  who  behold, 
Bless  every  shining  star, 

Cheer  every  streaming  fold! 

Float  high,  O  gallant  flag, 

O'er  Carib  Isles  of  Palm, 
O'er  bleak  Alaskan  crag, 

O'er  far-off,  lone  Guam ; 
Where  Mauna  Loa  pours 

Black  thunder  from  the  deeps; 
O'er  Mindanao's  shores, 

O'er  Luzon's  coral  steeps. 

Float  high,  and  be  the  sign 

Of  love  and  brotherhood, — 
The  pledge,  by  right  divine, 

Of  Power,  to  do  Good: 
For  aye  and  everywhere, 

On  continent  and  wave, 
Armipotent  to  dare, 

Imperial  to  save! 
May,  1899. 

AN  OLD  SPANISH  BUGLE 

This   clarion  sounded   its  final  war-warning 
On  stormed  Santiago's  grim  day  of  renown, 

When  thunders  of  sea-battle  roared  through  the  morning 
And  flame-shrouded  ships  of  Cervera  went  down. 

Some  artisan  wrought  it  in  old  Barcelona, 
Whose  dark  bastions  frown  on  the  Mediterrane, 

211 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Beyond  where  the  rampires  of  gray  Tarragona 
Remember  Hamilcar  and  Caesar,  in  Spain. 

Perchance  its  ta-ra-ra  has  marshaled  yare  heroes 
In  days  of  the  Moor  and  of  proud  Ferdinand  — 

Its  blast  may  have  sounded  when  plumed  caballeros 
Of  Philip  ensanguined  the  sea  and  the  land. 

Perchance  Boabdil,  on  the  walls  of  Granada, 
Defied  the  far  flourish  and  parl  of  its  note ; 

Belike  that  brave  Duke  of  the  storm-tost  Armada 
Heard  fanfares  of  doom  from  its  clangorous  throat ! 

Lepanto's  flotilla  whose  gonfalons  flouted 
Encountering  crescents  by  Moslem  upborne, 

And  squadrons  of  Alva,  in  Netherlands  routed, 
I  trow  may  have  harked  yon  historial  horn. 

No  more  shall  it  summon  hidalgo  or  vassal, 

To  rouse  up  from  slumber  and  arm  for  the  fray, 

Nor  city  beleaguered  nor  turreted  castle 
Shall  fear  or  rejoice  at  its  challenging  bray. 

No  more  by  clear  Ebro  or  swift  Guadalquivir, 
On  coast  Caribbean  or  Philippine  shore, 

Its  signals  of  wrath  shall  this  bugle  deliver, 
Shall  madden  the  charging  battalions  no  more! 

Nay,  mute  let  it  hang  as  a  trophy  and  token 

Of  conflicts  forgotten  and  war-banners  furled, 

A  sign  of  the  truce  that  shall  never  be  broken, 
When  love,  like  a  baldric,  encircles  the  world. 

1909. 


212 


WILLIAM  HENRY  V EN ABLE 

IMMORTAL   BIRDSONG 

What  though  mine  ear  hath  never  heard 
The  wing'd  voice  of  the  sky? 

Nor  listened  to  the  love-lorn  bird 
Whose  plaints  in  darkness  die? 

The  poets  improvise  for  me 

Lark-notes  that  never  fail, 
And  make  more  sweet  than  sound  can  be 

The  song  of  nightingale. 

'From  rapt  Alastor's  lyric  leaves 

Joy's  flying  carol  springs! 
On  darkling  pinion  sorrow  grieves 

When  Adonais  sings. 

I  list  the  lavrock  warbling  clear 

In  birks  of  bonny  Doon; 
The  bulbul's  swooning  voice  I  hear, 

Beneath  the  Persian  moon; 

I  hear  across  the  centuries 

What  Philomela  sung, 
In  Attic  groves,  to  Sophocles, 

When  Poesie  was  young. 


SUMMER  LOVE 

1  know  'tis  late,  but  let  me  stay, 
For  night  is  tenderer  than  day ; 
Sweet  love,  dear  love,  I  cannot  go, 
Dear  love,  sweet  love,  I  love  thee  so. 
The  birds  in  leafy  hiding  sleep; 
Shrill  katydids  their  vigil  keep ; 
The  woodbine  breathes  a  fragrance  rare 
Upon  the  dewy  languid  air ; 

213 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

The  fireflies  twinkle  in  the  vale, 
The  river  looms  in  moonshine  pale, 
And  look !  a  meteor's  dreamy  light 
Streams  mystic  down  the  solemn  night ! 
Ah,  life  glides  swift,  like  that  still  fire  — 
How  soon  our  throbbing  joys  expire ; 
Who  can  be  sure  the  present  kiss 
Is  not  his  last  ?    Make  all  of  this. 
I  know  'tis  late,  sweet  love,  I  know, 
Dear  love,  sweet  love,  I  love  thee  so. 

Fantastic  mist  obscurely  fills 
The  hollows  of  Kentucky  hills ; 
Heardst  thou  ?     I  heard  or  fear  I  heard 
Vague  twitters  of  some  wakeful  bird; 
The  winged  hours  are  swift  indeed ! 
Why  makes  the  jealous  morn  such  speed? 
This  rose  thou  wearst  may  I  not  take 
For  passionate  remembrance'  sake? 
Press  with  thy  lips  its  crimson  heart; 
Yes,  blushing  rose,  we  must  depart ; 
A  rose  cannot  return  a  kiss  — 
I  pay  its  due  with  this,  and  this; 
The  stars  grow  faint,  they  soon  will  die, 
But  love  faints  not  nor  fails. —  Good-bye ! 
Unhappy  joy  —  delicious  pain  — 
We  part  in  love,  we  meet  again ! 
Good-bye !  —  the  morning  dawns  —  I  go ; 
Dear  love,  sweet  love,  I  love  thee  so. 


COFFEA  ARABICA 

More  entrancing  than  aroma 
From  the  Hindu  sacred  soma, 

Comes   a   fragrant 

Essence  vagrant 

214 


WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE 

Floating  up 
From  my  quaint  Zumpango  cup, 

Incense  rare, 

Evanescent  steam  ascending, 
Curling,  wavering,  fading,  blending, 

Vanishing  in  viewless  air. 

Let  me  sip  and  dream  and  sing 
Musing  many  an  idle  thing, 
Let  me  sing  and  dream  and  sip 
Making  many  a  fancied  trip 

Far  away  and  far  away 

Over  ocean,  gulf  and  bay 
To  islands  whence  the  spicy  wind 

Breathes  languor  on  the  tropic  sea, 
To  sultry  strands  of  teeming  Ind, 

To  coasts  of  torrid  Araby, 
To  realms  no  boreal  breath  may  chill, 

Like  rich  Brazil, 
Or  Jabal's  clouded  hill  on  hill, 
Or  warm  Bulgosa's  valley  low, 
To  zones  where  summer  splendors  glow, 
Where  seasons  never  come  or  go, 
Where  coffee  trees  perpetual  blow. 

While  I  drowse  and  dream  and  sip, 
Sailing,  sailing,  slides  a  ship 

Over  the  glittering  sea, 
Measuring  leagues  of  night  and  day, 

Bearing  and  bringing  to  me, 
Bringing  from  far  away,  away, 

The  pale  green  magical  berry, 

The  seed  of  the  virtuous  cherry, 

The  bean  of  the  blossom  divine! 

Bringing  from  over  the  brine, 

Bringing  from  Demerara, 

From  balsamy  San  Para, 


215 


POETS   OF  OHIO 

Bringing  from  Trans-Sahara, 

From  hoard  of  the  Grand  Bashaw, 

Or  redolent  chests  of  Menelek, 
An  Abyssinian  cargo 
Richer  than  freight  of  Argo, 

Treasured  in  garners  under  the  deck, 

Bringing  and  bearing  for  me 

The  gift  of  the  coffee  tree! 

Better  than  blood  of  the  Spanish  vine, 

Or  ruddy  or  amber  wine  of  the  Rhine; 
Bearing  the  bean  of  the  blessed  tree ! 

Better  than  bousa  or  sake  fine, 
Or  sampan  loads  of  oolong  tea, 
Souchong,  twankay,  or  bohea, — 

Bringing  the  virtuous  bean  divine, 
The  coffee-tree  cherry, 
The  magical  berry, 

More  entrancing  than  aroma 

From  the  Hindu  sacred  soma. 


A  WELCOME  TO  BOZ 

Impromptu 

In  immortal  Weller's  name, 

By  Micawber's  deathless  fame, 

By  the  flogging  wreaked  on  Squeers, 

By  Job  Trotter's  fluent  tears, 

By  the  beadle  Bumble's  fate 

At  the  hands  of  vixen  mate, 

By  the  famous  Pickwick  Club, 

By  the  dream  of  Gabriel  Grub, 

In  the  name  of  Snodgrass'  muse, 

Tupman's  amorous  interviews, 

Winkle's  ludicrous  mishaps, 

And  the  fat  boy's  countless  naps, 

216 


WILLIAM  HENRY  V  EN  ABLE 

By  Ben  Allen  and  Bob  Sawyer, 
By  Miss  Sally  Brass,  the  lawyer, 
In  the  name  of  Newman  Noggs, 
River  Thames  and  London  fogs, 
Richard  Swiveller's  excess, 
Feasting  with  the  Marchioness, 
By  Jack  Bunsby's  oracles, 
By  the  chime  of  Christmas  bells, 
By  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Scrooge's  frown  and  Cratchit's  mirth, 
By  spread  tables  and  good  cheer, 
Wayside  inns  and  pots  of  beer, 
Hostess  plump  and  jolly  host, 
Coaches  for  the  country  post, 
Chambermaid  in  love  with  Boots, 
Toodles,  Traddles,  Tapley,  Toots, 
Jarley,  Varden,  Mister  Dick, 
Susan  Nipper,  Mistress  Chick, 
Snevellicci,  Lilyvick, 
Mantalini's  predilections 
To  transfer  his  "dem"  affections, 
Podsnap,  Pecksniff,   Chuzzlewit. 
Quilp  and  Simon  Tappertit, 
Wegg  and  Boffin,  Smike  and  Paul, 
Nell  and  Jenny  Wren  and  all, — 
Be  not  Sairey  Gamp  forgot, — 
No,  nor  Peggotty  and  Trot, — 
By  poor  Barnaby  and  Grip, 
Flora,  Dora,  Di  and  Jip, 
Peerybingle,  Pinch  and  Pip  — 
Welcome,  long-expected  guest, 
Welcome,  Dickens,  to  the  West. 

1867. 


217 


POETS  OF   OHIO 

THE  POET  OF  CLOVERNOOK1 

A  poet  born,  not  made, 

By  Nature  taught,  she  knew, 

And,  knowing,  still  obeyed 
The  Beautiful,  the  True. 

Hers  was  the  seeing  eye, 
The   sympathetic  heart, 

The  subtle  art  whereby 
Lone  genius  summons  art. 

She  caught  the  primal  charm 
Of  every  rural  scene, — 

Of  river,  cottage,  farm, 

Blue  sky,  and  woodland  green. 

Baptized  in  Sorrow's  stream, 
She  sang,  how  sweetly  well, 

Of  true  Love's  tender  dream, 
And  Death's  pale  asphodel. 

Her  pensive  muse  has  fled 
From  hill  and  meadow-brook; 

No  more  her  footsteps  tread 
Thy  paths,  fair  Clovernook. 

No  more  may  she  behold 
The  dew-crowned  summer  morn 

On  wings  of  sunrise  gold 
Fly  o'er  the  bending  corn. 

No  more  her  mournful  gaze 
Shall  seek  the  twilight  sky, 

When  parting  autumn  days 
Flush  hectic  ere  they  die. 


1  Read  at  the  celebration  of  Alice  Gary's  birthday,  to  the  children  of  the  Public  Schools 
of  Cincinnati,  April  26,  1880. 

218 


WILLIAM  HENRY  YEN  ABLE 

Nor  note  of  joyous  bird, 
Nor  April's  fragrant  breath, 

Nor  tear,  nor  loving  word, 
May  break  the  spell  of  Death. 

Sleep  on!  and  take  thy  rest, 
In  Greenwood  by  the  sea! 

Dear  Poet  of  the  West, 
Thy  West  remembers  thee. 

A  GENTLE  MAN 

I  knew  a  gentle  Man ;  — 

Alas!  his  soul  has  flown; 
Now  that  his  tender  heart  is  still, 

Pale  anguish  haunts  my  own. 
His  eye,  in  pity's  tear, 

Would  often  saintly  swim; 
He  did  to  others  as  he  would 

That  they  should  do  to  him. 

He  suffered  many  things, — 

Renounced,   forgave,   forbore; 
And  sorrow's  crown  of  thorny  stings, 

Like  Christ,  he  meekly  wore; 
At  rural  toils  he  strove; 

In  beauty,  joy  he  sought; 
His  solace  was  in  children's  words 

And  wise  men's  pondered  thought. 

He  was  both  meek  and  brave, 

Not  haughty,  and  yet  proud; 
He  daily  died  his  soul  to  save, 

And  ne'er  to   Mammon  bowed. 
E'en  as  a  little  child 

He  entered  Heaven's  Gate; 
I  caught  his  parting  smile,  which  said, 

"Be  reconciled,  and  wait." 

219 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

INVIOLATE 

We  took  a  walk  in  winter  woods, 

My  little  lad  and  I, — 
The  hills  and  hollows  all  were  pearl, 

And  sapphire  all  the  sky. 

Before  guerilla  winds  we  saw 

The  scurrying  drift  retreat; 
We  thought  of  budded  roots  that  lay 

Asleep  beneath  our  feet. 

We  spoke  of  how,  last  year,  in  May, 

One  sunny  bank  we  found, 
Where  wind-flowers  stood  in  fairy  crowds, 

To  charm  the  gladdened  ground. 

A  subtle  feeling  checked  the  boy, — 

His  small  hand  held  me  back, 
With  mute  appeal  that  we  should  tread 

The  wood-path's  beaten  track. 

"My  child,  'tis  pleasanter  to  break 

New  pathways  as  we  go." 
He  said,  "I  do  not  like  to  spoil 

The  beauty  of  the  snow." 

A  DIAMOND 

Upon  the  breast  of  senseless  earth 

This  immemorial  stone, 
A  jewel  of  Golconda's  worth, 

In  sovran  beauty  shone. 

My  lady  for  a  moment  bore 

The  gem  upon  her  brow, 
A  moment  on  her  bosom  wore: — 

'Tis  worth  the  Orient  now. 


220 


WILLIAM  HENRY  VENABLE 

FROM  "FLORIDIAN  SONNETS"1 

"THE  GOLDEN  TREASURY" 

She  brought  one  book  to  that  sequestered  Cay 

Rhyme's  linked  sweetness  by  the  voice  discrete 

Interpreted  with  modulation  meet: 
Melodious  Elizabethan  lay, 
Rare  lyric  fragrant  of  Victoria's  day, — 

Outrivaling  skill  of  larks  and  nightingales, — 

Songs  from  the  heights  of  genius  and  the  dales, 
Whose  echoes  in  the  haunted  memory  stay. 
From  often  vesper  service  to  the  Muse 

Our  hearts,  exalted,  took  a  joy  secure, 

And  drank  a  spiritual  solace  pure, 
Reviving  as  to  flowers  the  pensive  dews: 

Religion  hath  a  liturgy  and  shrine, 

And  Poesy  its  ritual  divine. 

MILTON 

Lost  Paradise  and  Paradise  Regained, 
Sublime,  sonorous,  like  that  seven-fold 
Sphere-music  down  the  crystal  heavens  rolled 

In  solemn,  epic  symphony,  deep-strained; 

Not  these,  of  lofty  argument  sustained, 
The  strenuous  labor  of  the  mighty-souled 
Milton  of  Cromwell,  have  the  charm  to  hold 

My  captive  spirit  goldenly  enchained. 

Rather  that  Milton  of  a  gentler  Age, 
Inheriting  the  selfsame  woodland  note 
Of  him  who  turned  it  to  the  sweet  bird's  throat 

Not  the  blind  Samson  with  the  world  at  rage, 
But  he,  the  swain  who  by  smooth-dittied  song 
Rescued  the  Lady  from  all  fear  of  wrong. 


1  By  permission  of  Richard  G.  Badger. 

221 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

WORDSWORTH 

Poets  there  be  whose  passionate  verses  pour 
E'en  as  cascading  streams  that  rush  along, 
Tumultuous  torrential  flows  of  song, 

And  wake  the  echoing  vales  with  mellow  roar ; 

And  there  be  bards  profound  of  calmer  lore, 
Whose  inexhaustive  numbers  full  and  strong, 
Like  storm-blown,  multitudinous  billows,  throng 

And  roll  in  rhythmic  thunder  on  the  shore. 

The  shouting  brooks  which  down  the  mountains  leap, 
Moon-litten  lakes  that  ripple  to  the  breeze, 
Wordsworth !  thy  joyous  hymns  resemble  these ; 

Thy  grander  songs  majestically  sweep 
Like  Amazon  or  the  unfathomed  seas, 

Deep  answering  unto  harmonious  deep. 

SURSUM  CORDA 

Here  on  this  barren  fragment  unreclaimed 
Of  coral  reef  o'ersurged  by  tidal  brine, 
Shifting  each  fluctuant  hour  its  border-line, 

I  did  not  think  to  hear,  loud-clarion-famed, 

Or  whispered  to  my  solitude  unblamed, 
Rumor  of  Politics;  but  o'er  the  shine 
Of  watery  waste,  and  continental  fine, 

Sounded  the  Nations  and  great  names  were  named ! 

Then  I  rejoiced  with  an  exceeding  awe, 
And  the  religious  rapture  patriots  know, 
Who  in  their  love  of  country  love  the  Race, 

Enjoining  equal  privilege  and  law! 
A  Citizen!  a  Man!  how  can  I  go 

Away  from  Home,  beyond  my  People's  place? 


222 


WILLIAM  HENRY  V 'EN ABLE 

MUTATION 

Cult,  credo,  social  orders  that  pertain 
To  human  progress,  polity  and  laws; 
Science,  philosophy;  effect  and  cause 

Of  war  and  wealth  or  poverty  and  pain; 

Rise  and  decline  of  empire;   loss  and  gain 
O'  th'  whole  world ;  ancient  and  modern  saws 
Of  wisdom:  these  but  eddyings  and  flaws 

In  the  full  tide  of  Time  which  moves  amain 

Its  fateful  course!  and  what  is  man?    A  leaf 
On  Igdrasil,  that  for  a  season  stirs 
With  kindred  rustling  multitudes,  then  whirs 

Into  oblivion : —  such,  our  mortal  fief ! 

How  void  of  worth  your  proud  Opinion,  sirs, 

Or  mine,  our  term  of  fluttering  so  brief. 

TO  COATES  KINNEY 

That  shrine  the  sexton  told  me  was  thy  tomb, 

There  where  the  hills  of  Wayne  slope  greenly  down 
To  willowy  Miami,  near  the  pensive  Town 

Mournful  without  thee,  though  its  mold  consume 

Thy  consecrated  bones,  may  not  inhume 

Genius  from  proud  remembrance ;  nay,  Renown 
Hath  woven  thy  unfading  laurel  crown, 

And  o'er  thy  dust  Love's  amaranth  shall  bloom. 

Well  didst  thou  rear  thy  monument,  not  stone 
Nor  votive  bronze;  no  mausoleum  wrought 

In  burnished  gold ;  no  obelisk,  world-shown, 

To  mark  where  monarch  reigned  or  soldier  fought : 

My  Poet  shall  to  nobler  fame  be  known 
By  what  he  builded  of  immortal  thought. 


223 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS 

WILLIAM  DEAN  HOWELLS,  novelist,  poet,  critic,  a 
son  of  William  Cooper  Howells  and  Mary  (Dean) 
Howells,  was  born  at  Martin's  Ferry,  Belmont  County, 
Ohio,  March  1,  1837.  His  preliminary  education,  he  tells  us, 
was  largely  received  in  his  father's  and  other  Ohio  newspaper 
offices  in  which  he  worked  as  compositor,  correspondent,  and 
editor.  Early  in  life  he  achieved  a  wide  reputation  by  note 
worthy  writings  in  prose  and  in  verse  contributed  to  the  Ohio 
State  Journal,  the  Cincinnati  Gazette,  the  Dial,  (edited  in  Cin 
cinnati,  by  M.  D.  Conway,)  the  New  York  Saturday  Press,  and 
the  Atlantic  Monthly.  In  1860  he  brought  out,  in  collaboration 
with  John  James  Piatt,  a  volume  entitled  "Poems  of  Two 
Friends,"  published  in  Columbus,  Ohio.  This  was  followed,  in 
the  same  year,  by  a  campaign  Life  of  Abraham  Lincoln.  In 
1861  Mr.  Howells  was  appointed  United  States  Consul  to  Venice, 
a  position  which  he  held  until  the  summer  of  1865.  He  was 
married,  in  1862,  in  Paris,  France,  to  Miss  Elinor  G.  Mead. 
After  returning  to  America  from  his  consular  service  in  Italy, 
he  became,  successively,  editorial  writer  on  the  New  York 
Nation;  assistant  editor  and,  later,  chief  editor  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly;  editorial  contributor  to  Harper's  Monthly  Magazine; 
and  editor  of  the  Cosmopolitan  Magazine;  and  since  1892  he  has 
conducted  with  great  originality  and  distinction  the  "Editor's 
Easy  Chair"  department  in  Harper's  Magazine,  to  which  periodi 
cal  his  name  adds  luster. 

In  recognition  of  his  eminence  as  a  man  of  letters,  honorary 
degrees  have  been  conferred  on  Mr.  Howells  by  Harvard,  Yale, 
Columbia,  and  Oxford  universities,  and  by  Adelbert  College. 

Mr.  Howells  holds  a  distinguished  rank  among  American 
authors.  His  versatile  genius  has  given  to  the  world  some  sev- 

224 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS 

enty  different  volumes,  embracing  works  of  biography,  history, 
travel,  fiction,  drama,  essay,  criticism,  and  poetry.  But  though 
the  Nation  claims  him  as  her  own,  he  has  never  failed  to  render 
a  loyal  tribute  of  gratitude  to  his  native  State;  and  several  of 
his  books,  among  which  may  be  mentioned  those  entitled  "Life 
of  Rutherford  B.  Hayes,"  "Ohio  Stories,"  "My  Year  in  a  Log 
Cabin,"  and  "A  Boy's  Town/'  derive  much  of  their  absorbing 
interest  from  his  familiar  knowledge  of  Ohio. 

A  consummate  master  of  elegant  prose,  a  profound  and  sub 
tle  critic  whose  literary  judgments  are  respected  wherever  Eng 
lish  is  read,  a  novelist  of  extraordinary  penetration  and  power, 
William  Dean  Howells  is  also  an  artist  of  rare  skill  and  surpris 
ing  invention  in  the  province  of  poetry.  To  few  American 
authors  whose  reputation  mainly  rests  upon  the  intrinsic  excel 
lence  of  their  works  in  prose,  has  it  been  given  to  contribute 
so  much  that  is  of  enduring  merit  to  the  poetical  literature  of 
the  Nation.  His  early  poems  are  distinguished  for  melodious 
cadence  and  exquisite  touches  of  descriptive  beauty,  while  his 
more  recent  achievement  in  verse,  fairly  represented  in  the  vol 
ume,  Stops  of  Various  Quills,  shows  the  ripe  thought  and 
imagination  of  a  philosophic  poet  who,  in  the  spirit  of  noble 
altruism,  has  sympathetically  studied  human  nature  and  human 
society,  and  who  has  pondered  deeply  the  ultimate  problems  of  life. 


THE  MOVERS 

Parting  was  over  at  last,  and  all  the  good-byes  had  been  spoken. 
Up  the  long  hill-side  the  white-tented  wagon  moved  slowly, 
Bearing  the  mother  and  children,  while  onward  before  them  the 

father 
Trudged  with  his  gun  on  his  arm,  and  the  faithful  house-dog 

'beside  him, 
Grave  and  sedate,  as  if  knowing  the  sorrowful  thoughts  of  his 

master. 


225 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

April  was  in  her  prime,  and  the  day  in  its  dewy  awaking ; 
Like  a  great  flower,  afar  on  the  crest  of  the  eastern  woodland, 
Goldenly  bloomed  the  sun,  and  over  the  beautiful  valley, 
Dim  with  its  dew  and  its  shadow,  and  bright  with  its  dream  of 

a  river, 

Looked  to  the  western  hills,  and  shone  on  the  humble  procession, 
Paining  with  splendor  the  children's  eyes,  and  the  heart  of  the 

mother. 

Beauty,  and  fragrance,  and  song  filled  the  air  like  a  palpable 

presence. 
Sweet  was  the  smell  of  the  dewy  leaves  and  the  flowers  in  the 

wildwood, 

Fair  the  long  reaches  of  sun  and  shade  in  the  aisles  of  the  forest. 
Glad  of  the  spring,  and  of  love,  and  of  morning,  the  wild  birds 

were  singing; 

Jays  to  each  other  called  harshly,  then  mellowly  fluted  together; 
Sang  the  oriole  songs  as  golden  and  gay  as  his  plumage ; 
Pensively  piped  the  querulous  quails  their  greetings  unfrequent, 
While,  on  the  meadow-elm,  the  meadow-lark  gushed  forth  in 

music, 

Rapt,  exultant  and  shaken,  with  the  great  joy  of  his  singing ; 
Over  the  river,  loud-chattering,  aloft  in  the  air,  the  king-fisher, 
Hung  ere  he  dropped  like  a  bolt  into  the  water  beneath  him ; 
Gossiping,  out  of  the  bank,  flew  myriad  twittering  swallows ; 
And  in  the  boughs  of  the  sycamore  quarreled  and  clamored  the 

blackbirds. 

Never  for  these  things  a  moment  halted  the  movers,  but  onward 
Up  the  long  hill-side  the  white-tented  wagon  moved  slowly, 
Till,  on,  the  summit,  that  overlooked  all  the  beautiful  valley, 
Trembling  and  spent,  the  horses  came  to  a  standstill  unbidden ; 
Then  from  the  wagon  the  mother  in  silence  got  down  with  her 

children, 
Came  and  stood  by  the   father,   and   rested   her  hand  on  his 

shoulder. 


226 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOW  ELLS 

Long  together  they  gazed  on  the  beautiful  valley  before  them; 
Looked   on  the   well-known  fields   that  stretched  away   to   the 

wood-lands, 
Where,  in  the  dark  lines  of  green,  showed  the  milk-white  crest 

of  the  dogwood, 

Snow  of  wild  plums  in  bloom,  and  crimson  tints  of  the  redbud; 
Looked  on  the  pasture  fields  where  the  cattle  were  lazily  grazing — 
Softly,  and  sweet,  and  thin,  came  the  faint,  far  notes  of  the 

cow-bell ; 
Looked  on  the  oft-trodden  lanes,  with  their  elder  and  blackberry 

borders, 

Looked  on  the  orchard,  a  bloomy  sea,  with  its  billows  of  blossoms. 
Fair  was  the  scene,  yet  suddenly  strange  and  all  unfamiliar, 
Like  as  the  faces  of  friends,  when  the  word  of  farewell  has 

been  spoken. 

Long  together  they  gazed ;  then  at  last  on  the  little  log-cabin  — 
Home  for  so  many  years,  now  home  no  longer  forever  — 
Rested  their  tearless  eyes  in  the  silent  rapture  of  anguish. 
Up  on  the  morning  air,  no  column  of  smoke  from  the  chimney 
Wavering,  silver  and  azure,  rose,  fading  and  brightening  ever  ; 
Shut  was  the  door  where  yesterday  morning  the  children  were 

playing, 

Lit  with  a  gleam  of  the  sun,  the  window  stared  at  them  blindly, 
Cold  was  the  hearth-stone  now,  and  the  place  was  forsaken  and 

empty. 

Empty  ?  Ah  no !  but  haunted  by  thronging  and  tenderest  fancies, 
Sad  recollections  of  all  that  had  ever  been,  of  sorrow  or  gladness. 

Once  more  they  sat  in  the  glow  of  the  wide  red  fire  in  the  winter, 
Once  more  they  sat  by  the  door  in  the  cool  of  the  still  summer 

evening, 
Once  more  the  mother  seemed  to  be  singing  her  babe  there  to 

slumber, 
Once  more  the  father  beheld  her  weep  o'er  the  child  that  was 

dying, 

227 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Once  more  the  place  was  peopled  by  all  the  Past's  sorrow  and 

gladness ! 
Neither  might  speak  for  the  thoughts  that  came  crowding  their 

hearts  so, 

Till,  in  their  ignorant  sorrow,  aloud  the  children  lamented; 
Then  was  the  spell  of  silence  dissolved,  and  the  father  and  mother 
Burst  into  tears,  and  embraced,  and  turned  their  dim  eyes  to  the 

westward. 

From  Coggeshall's  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West,  1860. 


FORLORN 

Red  roses,  in  the  slender  vases  burning, 

Breathed  all  upon  the  air, — 
The  passion  and  the  tenderness  and  yearning. 

The  waiting  and  the  doubting  and  despair. 

Still  with  the  music  of  her  voice  was  haunted, 

Through  all  its  charmed  rhymes, 
The  open  book  of  such  a  one  as  chanted 

The  things  he  dreamed  in  old,  old  summer-times. 

The  silvern  chords  of  the  piano  trembled 

Still  with  the  music  wrung 
From  them;  the  silence  of  the  room  dissembled 

The  closes  of  the  songs  that  she  had  sung. 

The  languor  of  the  crimson  shawl's  abasement, — 

Lying  without  a  stir 
Upon  the  floor, —  the  absence  at  the  casement, 

The  solitude  and  hush  were  full  of  her. 

Without,  and  going  from  the  room,  and  never 

Departing,  did  depart 
Her  steps ;  and  one  that  came  too  late  forever 

Felt  them  go  heavy  o'er  his  broken  heart. 

228 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOW  ELLS 

And,  sitting  in  the  house's  desolation, 

He  could  not  bear  the  gloom, 
The  vanishing  encounter  and  evasion 

Of  things  that  were  and  were  not  in  the  room. 

Through  midnight  streets  he  followed  fleeting  visions 

Of  faces  and  of  forms; 
He  heard  old  tendernesses  and  derisions 

Amid  the  sobs  and  cries  of  midnight  storms. 

By  midnight  lamps,  and  from  the  darkness  under 

That  lamps  made  at  their  feet, 
He  saw  sweet  eyes  peer  out  in  innocent  wonder, 

And  sadly  follow  after  him  down  the  street. 

The  noonday  crowds  their  restlessness  obtruded 

Between  him  and  his  quest; 
At  unseen  corners  jostled  and  eluded, 

Against  his  hand  her  silken  robes  were  pressed. 

Doors  closed  upon  her ;  out  of  garret  casements 

He  knew  she  looked  at  him; 
In  splendid  mansions  and  in  squalid  basements, 

Upon  the  walls  he  saw  her  shadow  swim. 

From  rapid  carriages  she  gleamed  upon  him, 

Whirling  away  from  sight ; 
From  all  the  hopelessness  of  search  she  won  him 

Back  to  the  dull  and  lonesome  house  at  night. 

Full  early  into  dark  the  twilights  saddened 

Within  its  closed  doors; 
The  echoes,  with  the  clock's  monotony  maddened, 

Leaped  loud  in  welcome  from  the  hollow  floors ; 

But  gusts  that  blew  all  day  with  solemn  laughter 

From  wide-mouthed  chimney-places, 
And  the  strange  noises  between  roof  and  rafter, 

The  wainscot  clamor,  and  the  scampering  races 

229 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Of  mice  that  chased  each  other  through  the  chambers, 

And  up  and  down  the  stair, 
And  rioted  among  the  ashen  embers, 

And  left  their  frolic  footprints  everywhere, — 

Were  hushed  to  hear  his  heavy  tread  ascending 

The  broad  steps,  one  by  one, 
And  toward  the  solitary  chamber  tending, 

Where  the  dim  phantom  of  his  hope  alone 

Rose  up  to  meet  him,  with  his  growing  nearer, 

Eager  for  his  embrace, 
And  moved,  and  melted  into  the  white  mirror, 

And  stared  at  him  with  his  own  haggard  face. 

But,  turning,  he  was  'ware  her  looks  beheld  him 

Out  of  the  mirror  white; 
And  at  the  window  yearning  arms  she  held  him, 

Out  of  the  vague  and  sombre  fold  of  night. 

Sometimes  she  stood  behind  him,  looking  over 

His  shoulder  as  he  read ; 
Sometimes  he  felt  her  shadowy  presence  hover 

Above  his  dreamful  sleep,  beside  his  bed ; 

And  rising  from  his  sleep,  her  shadowy  presence 

Followed  his  light  descent 
Of  the  long  stair;  her  shadowy  evanescence 

Through  all  the  whispering  rooms  before  him  went 

Upon  the  earthy  draught  of  cellars  blowing 

His  shivering  lamp-flame  blue, 
Amid  the  damp  and  chill,  he  felt  her  flowing 

Around  him  from  the  doors  he  entered  through. 

The  spiders  wove  their  webs  upon  the  ceiling ; 

The  bat  clung  to  the  wall ; 
The  dry  leaves  through  the  open  transom  stealing, 

Skated  and  danced  adown  the  empty  hall. 

230 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HOW  ELLS 

About  him  closed  the  utter  desolation, 

About  him  closed  the  gloom ; 
The  vanishing  encounter  and  evasion 

Of  things  that  were  and  were  not  in  the  room 

Vexed  him  forever;  and  his  life  forever 

Immured  and  desolate, 
Beating  itself,  with  desperate  endeavor, 

But  bruised  itself,  against  the  round  of  fate. 

The  roses,  in  their  slender  vases  burning, 

Were  quenched  long  before ; 
A  dust  was  on  the  rhymes  of  love  and  yearning ; 

The  shawl  was  like  a  shroud  upon  the  floor. 

Her  music  from  the  thrilling  chords  had  perished; 

The  stillness  was  not  moved 
With  memories  of  cadences  long  cherished, 

The  closes  of  the  songs  that  she  had  loved. 

But  not  the  less  he  felt  her  presence  never 

Out  of  the  room  depart; 
Over  the  threshold,  not  the  less,  forever 

He  felt  her  going  on  his  broken  heart. 


IN   EARLIEST   SPRING 

Tossing  his  mane  of  snows  in  wildest  eddies  and  tangles, 

Lion-like,  March  cometh  in,  hoarse,  with  tempestuous  breath, 

Through  all  the  moaning  chimneys,  and  thwart  all  the  hollows 

and  angles 
Round  the  shuddering  house,  threating  of  winter  and  death. 

But  in  my  heart  I  feel  the  life  of  the  wood  and  the  meadow 
Thrilling  the  pulses  that  own  kindred  with  fibres  that  lift 

Bud  and  blade  to  the  sunward,  within  the  inscrutable  shadow, 
Deep  in  the  oak's  chill  core,  under  the  gathering  drift. 

231 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Nay,  to  earth's  life  in  mine,  some  prescience,  or  dream,  or  desire 
(How  shall  I  name  it  aright?)  comes  for  a  moment  and  goes, — 

Rapture  of  life  ineffable,  perfect, —  as  if  in  the  brier, 
Leafless  there  by  my  door,  trembled  a  sense  of  the  rose. 

DEAD 

I 

'Something  lies  in  the  room 

Over  against   my   own; 
The  windows  are  lit  with  a  ghastly  bloom 

Of  candles,  burning  alone, — 
Untrimmed,  and  all  aflare 
•In  the  ghastly  silence  there! 

II 
People  go  by  the  door, 

Tiptoe,  holding  their  breath, 
And  hush  the  talk  that  they  held  before, 

Lest  they  should  waken  Death, 
That  is  awake  all  night 
There  in  the  candlelight! 

Ill 
The  cat  upon  the  stairs 

Watches  with  flamy  eye 
'For  the  sleepy  one  who  shall  unawares 

Let  her  go  stealing  by. 
She  softly,  softly  purrs, 
And  claws  at  the  banisters. 

IV 
The  bird  from  out  its  dream 

Breaks  with  a  sudden  song, 
That  stabs  the  sense  like  a  sudden  scream ; 

The  hound  the  whole  night  long 
Howls  to  the  moonless  sky, 
So  far,  and  starry,  and  high. 

232 


WILLIAM  DEAN  HO  WELLS 

SOCIETY  * 

I  looked  and  saw  a  splendid  pageantry 

Of  beautiful  women  and  of  lordly  men, 
Taking  their  pleasure  in  a  flowery  plain, 

Where  poppies  and  the  red  anemone, 

And  many  another  leaf  of  cramoisy, 

Flickered  about  their  feet,  and  gave  their  stain 
To  heels  of  iron  or  satin,  and  the  grain 

Of  silken  garments  floating  far  and  free, 

As  in  the  dance  they  wove  themselves,  or  strayed 
By  twos  together,  or  lightly  smiled  and  bowed, 

Or  curtseyed  to  each  other,  or  else  played 

At  games  of  mirth  and  pastime,  unafraid 
In  their  delight;  and  all  so  high  and  proud 
They  seemed  scarce  of  the  earth  whereon  they  trod. 

I  looked  again  and  saw  that  flowery  space 
Stirring,  as  if  alive,  beneath  the  tread 
That  rested  now  upon  an  old  man's  head 

And  now  upon  a  baby's  gasping  face, 

Or  mother's  bosom,  or  the  rounded  grace 

Of  a  girl's  throat ;  and  what  had  seemed  the  red 
Of  flowers  was  blood,  in  gouts  and  gushes  shed 

From  hearts  that  broke  under  that  frolic  pace. 

And  now  and  then  from  out  the  dreadful  floor 
An  arm  or  brow  was  lifted  from  the  rest, 

As  if  to  strike  in  madness,  or  implore 

For  mercy ;  and  anon  some  suffering  breast 
Heaved  from  the  mass  and  sank ;  and  as  before 

The  revellers  above  them  thronged  and  prest. 


1  Copyright,  1895,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

233 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

RESPITE  1 

Drowsing,  the  other  afternoon,  I  lay 
In  that  sweet  interlude  that  falls  between 
Waking  and  sleeping,  when  all  being  is  seen 

Of  one  complexion,  and  the  vague  dreams  play 

Among  the  thoughts,  and  the  thoughts  go  astray 
Among  the  dreams.    My  mother,  who  has  been 
Dead  almost  half  my  life,  appeared  to  lean 

Above  me,  a  boy,  in  a  house  far  away, 

That  once  was  home,  and  all  the  troubled  years 
That  have  been  since  were  as  if  they  were  not. 

The  voices  that  are  hushed  were  in  my  ears, 
The  looks  and  motions  that  I  had  forgot 

Were  in  my  eyes;  and  they  disowned  the  tears 
That  now  again  beneath  their  lids  are  hot. 


1  Copyright,  1895,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

234 


DENTON  JAQUES  SNIDER 

DENTON  JAQUES  SNIDER  was  born  at  Mount  Gilead, 
Morrow  County,  Ohio,  January  9,  1841.  He  graduated 
from  Oberlin  College  in  1862,  after  which  he  engaged 
in  teaching,  and  in  varied  and  protracted  studies  chiefly  of  a 
philosophical  character.  For  many  years  he  has  devoted  him 
self  exclusively  to  authorship,  and  to  the  elucidation,  from  the 
lecture-platform,  of  his  speculative  doctrines.  Mr.  Snider  was 
one  of  the  lecturers  in  the  Concord  School  of  Philosophy,  at 
Concord,  Mass.  He  is  a  man  of  profound  erudition  and  strik 
ingly  original  thought,  his  "Commentaries  on  the  Literary 
Bibles"  being  regarded  by  an  authority  no  less  eminent  than 
Dr.  William  T.  Harris,  editor  of  the  Journal  of  Speculative 
Philosophy,  as  of  unique  and  permanent  value  as  a  critical 
interpretation  of  the  ethical  significance  of  Goethe,  Shakespeare, 
Dante,  and  Homer. 

The  poetical  work  of  Denton  Jaques  Snider  is  comprised 
in  five  volumes:  Delphic  Days  (1878)  ;  Agamemnon's  Daughter 
(1885)  ;  Prorsus  Retrorsus  (1890)  ;  Homer  in  Chios  (1891)  ; 
and  Johnny  Appleseed's  Rhymes  (1894).  It  is  impossible  by 
detached  quotation  to  convey  any  adequate  conception  of  the 
scope  and  purport  of  the  author's  later  volumes  of  verse;  and 
the  selections  here  given  are  therefore  limited  to  illustrative 
extracts  from  "Delphic  Days,"  an  excursive  pastoral,  the  idyllic 
beauty  and  invigorating  atmosphere  of  which  must  commend  it 
to  every  lover  of  Hellas  and  the  Castalian  muse. 


236 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

DELPHIC  DAYS 

(Extracts) 

ELPINIKE 

In  these  verses  I  wish  to  build  a  new  temple  of  Fortune, 

For  the  Goddess  to-day  showed  me  a  favor  divine ; 
1  shall  raise  her  a  temple  and  deck  it  with  friezes  of  marble 

Which  will  emblazon  her  deed  worthy  of  glorious  Gods. 
For  she  led  me  direct  to  the  house  where  dwells  Elpinike, 

Whom  to  behold  I  had  wished  all  the  long  day  of  unrest. 
Just  at  dusk  I  sauntered  around  through  the  lanes  of  the  village, 

With  a  sweet  image  in  mind  ta'en  from  a  maid  I  had  seen 
Watering  her  horse  at  the  gush  of  a  fountain  early  this  morning : 

Lorn  and  unhappy  I  strayed  in  a  delicious  still  pain, 
When  a  door  that  stood  right  before  me  was  oped  and  the  image 

Flew  into  body  at  once,  with  transformation  divine. 
Such  is  always  the  brightest  Olympian  present  of  Fortune, 

When  the  dear  shadow  she  turns  into  fresh  life  at  her  touch; 
So  I  beheld  the  pale  lines  of  my  fancy  to  color  transmuted, 

Till  my  soul  became  eye  —  then  too  mine  eye  became  soul. 


To  the  house  I  came  where  dwelleth  the  fair  Elpinike ; 

We  sat  down  by  the  fire  that  in  the  chimney  was  lit ; 
On  the  hearth  the  twigs  of  the  oak  and  the  olive  were  sparkling, 

There  on  the  mats  we  sat  down  round  the  bright  blaze  of 

the  fire. 
Large  was  the  company — youthful  and  old — about  her  assembled, 

Crowds  of  suitors  and  guests  who  find  delight  in  her  look. 
Many  a  story  was  told  of  the  time  of  the  Great  Revolution, 

How  Palicaris  so  bold  slew  then  the  barbarous  Turk. 
Next  they  sang,  sang  gaily  of  wine  and  of  certain  three  maidens 

Who  dispensed  to  the  guests  liquid  of  poesy's  flame. 
But  to  me  Elpinike  came  with  a  jar  full  of  sweetmeats, 

Bade  me  to  eat  of  the  fruit  —  citrons  from  Chios  they  were, 

236 


DENTON  JAQUES  SNIDER 

Made  by  her  hand  of  deep  skill  and  then  laid  away  for  occasion, 

Till  the  right  one  should  come  who  could  enjoy  her  sweet  art. 
Long  she  stood  there  before  me,  pretending  to  hold  me  the  server, 

Longer  I  caused  her  to  stand  uttering  words  for  delay 
Sweeter  than  citrons  —  words  that  were  sweetened  by  Eros 

With  the  glance  of  the  eye  and  the  soft  touch  of  the  hand. 
Then  she  reached  me  a  beaker  that  brimmed  with  Castalia's  pure 
water 

Just  from  the  spring  by  the  rock,  redolent  with  a  new  song 
Fresh  from  the  Muse;  with  her  face  in  each  drop  I  drank  off 
the  crystal  — 

Draughts  that  reached  to  the  soul,  quenching  its  thirst  by 

the  hymn. 
Now  all  the  day  I  but  eat  of  the  junkets  of  fair  Elpinike, 

With  them  I  drink  of  the  brook,  limpid  Castalia's  stream. 


When  I  go  now  on  my  walk  through  Delphi,  every  one  knows  me, 

Gives  a  familiar  salute  with  a  fair  word  or  a  nod, 
And  they  call  me  Didaskali  —  that  is,  the  Master  or  Teacher, 

With  a  strange  guess  at  my  life,  hinted  perchance  in  my  face. 
I  accept  the  kind  title  and  always  return  friendly  greeting 

To  every  nod  of  the  head,  to  every  smile  of  the  eye. 
Even  the  children  no  longer  laugh  at  the  foreigner's  costume, 

But  they  will  follow  my  steps,  gently  take  me  by  the  hand, 
Babbling  their  little  delights  in  many  a  word  of  old  Homer, 

And  these  words  too  I  greet  like  the  dear  faces  of  friends. 
Also  the  mother  will  stop  the  full  sweep  of  her  loom  to  salute  me, 

As  she  sits  weaving  the  threads  for  the  phou'stana's  white  folds. 
With   the   Papas  too,   the  priest,   I   oft   take   a   stroll  up    the 
mountain  — 

Dark-haired,  long-robed  priest,  with  his  hair  parted  like  Christ's 
Just  in  the  middle,  and  falling  loosely  over  his  shoulders; 

Kindly  and  good  is  the  man,  with  not  a  stain  on  his  soul. 
Hours   pass   unnoticed   as   over   the   valley   we  look   from   the 
summit, 

237 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Talking  of  things  far  away  on  the  wide  world's  other  half 
Where  is  my  home  by  the  River.    But  to  Elpinike  I  play  now 

Teacher  all  the  day  long,  teaching  her  mouth-wrenching  words 
Ta'en  from  my  language  —  words  that  before  never  flowed  from 
her  tongue-tip: 

Willing  the  Master  doth  work,  willing  too  seemeth  the  maid ; — 
For  she  keeps  asking :  What  is  the  name  of  this  thing  in  English  ? 

So  I  utter  the  sounds  which  she  attempts  to  repeat; 
O'er  the   rough  vocables   then   she   skips    like    a    brook   over 
boulders  — 

Still  her  stammer  I  love,  for  it  is  fair  as  herself, 
Even  new  beauty  reveals,  for  she  always  resembles  Castalia 

When  a  rock  may  be  cast  into  the  flow  of  its  stream: 
For  it  will  ripple  and  warble  around  the  ugly  intruder, 

Making  a  melody  new  sung  from  the  rill  of  the  Muse ; 
Were  there  naught  in  the  way  of  the  stream,  the  beautiful  water 

Onward  would  flow  in  its  course,  lisping  not  even  a  note, 
But  with  the  babble  and  dash  of  its  drops  now  a  hymn  it  is 
singing 

In  the  struggle  it  makes  for  its  own  happy  repose. 
Often  merely  a  pebble  thrown  into  pearly  Castalia 

Tunes  her  to  sweetest  of  notes  which  she  before  never  sang. 
So  in  that  streamlet  I  throw  a  large  stone  or  perchance  a  small 
pebble, 

Which  the  clear  waters  embrace  with  a  pellucid  soft  throb. 
Such  is  the  way  that  I  teach  Elpinike  the  words  of  my  language, 

Which  with  her  musical  breath  she  doth  convert  to  a  song. 
Sweet  are  all  her  mistakes,  for  they  drip  with  melodious  honey, 

Sweeter  by  far  is  her  mouth  twisted  to  utter  my  words, 
And  the  rude  sounds  of  my  voice  that  through  her  soft  lips  are 
but  spoken 

Changed  are  at  once  to  a  strain  that  hath  the  breath  of  the 

(Muse. 

***** 

Here  in  this  alley  there  lies  the  fragment  of  some  ancient  column, 
Half  imbedded  in  soil,  tipped  to  one  side  in  its  fall; 

238 


DENTON  JAQUES  SNIDER 

See  the  shape  of  the  flower  there  sculptured  in  happiest  outline, 

Just  in  the  bloom  of  its  growth  with  all  the  leaves  on  the  stalk. 
Even  in  marble  it  has  a  fresh  look  as  if  blowing  in  springtide, 

Though  rude  handfuls  of  Time  long  have  been  flung  on  its 

form ; 
Gently  it  clings  to  the  stone  and  lovingly  winds  round  the  pillar, 

Yet  it  turns  to  my  glance  with  a  soft  smile  in  its  eye. 
So  art  thou,  divine  Elpinike,  the  flower  of  Delphi, 

Ancient  thou  art,  I  should  say,  just  in  the  bud  of  thy  youth; 
For  if  the  Delphian  priestess  now  were  alive  in  her  beauty, 

She  thy  form  would  assume,  robed  in  the  waves  of  white  folds. 
But  though  so  young,  thou  art  hid,  methinks  in  the  ages  of  Delphi, 

Beautiful  flower  in  stone  sprung  from  a  fancy  of  old. 
Note  but  this  leaf,  how  graceful  it  lies  in  the  curve  of  the  marble; 

Then  another  succeeds  —  half  of  it  only  you  see  ; 
Then  still  further  below  is  beheld  the  mere  tip  of  a  leaflet, 

All  the  others  are  hid  in  the  dark  tomb  of  the  ground. 
But  the  day  will  come  when  the  leaves  shall  leap  from  their  cover, 

And  the  day  will  come  when  Elpinike  shall  bloom. 
Now  I  am  going  to  dig  from  the  rubbish  this  column  of  flowers, 

Piece  together  its  parts,  cleanse  from  the  dirt  every  line, 
Set  up  the  column  in  light  that  again  it  may  sun  itself  proudly : 

Then  what  a  fragrance  will  rise  out  of  that  flowery  shaft ! 


I  was  down  in  the  valley  where  sports  the  orchard  of  Olives, 

Elpinike  was  there  —  stood  at  my  side  as  I  looked, 
And  she  lent  me  her  beautiful  eyes,  her  soul  too  she  lent  me, 

Bade  me  upward  to  glance  where  was  the  Delphian  town; 
Through   a   long  verdant  view   enchased  by   the   weft  of   the 

•branches 

The  old  temple  I  saw  rise  once  again  in  its  pride; 
Thither  the  leaves  made  a  framework  of  gracefullest  lines  for 

its  splendor, 

Through  them  the  marble  upsprang  gleaming  anew  from  the 
hill, 

239 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Just  as  fair  Elpinike  began  in  her  smiles  to  enwrap  me, 

And  as  I  felt  her  mild  breath  freighted  with  words  from  her 

soul, 
I  looked  up  through  the  twigs  and  the  leaves  and  beheld  ancient 

Delphi 
Filled  with  beauty  and  light,  moving  to  measures  of  hymns. 


Out  on  the  slant  of  the  hill-side  lies  the  old  Delphian  grave 
yard  : 

By  it  oft  I  must  pass  when  to  the  Olives  I  go ; 
Ancient   coffins   of    stone   through    the   fields    in    disorder   are 

scattered : 

Some  are  just  broken  in  twain  smote  by  a  single  rude  blow, 
Others  have  had  many  blows  from  the  ages  and  crumbled  to 

fragments, 

Still  a  few  have  remained  whole  in  the  tempest  of  time. 
But  they  all  are  now  empty  where  once  were  laid  the  dear  bodies, 

Laid  with  many  a  tear  in  the  thick  casket  of  rock, 
Strong  enough  to  preserve  what  it  held  in  its  chamber  forever: 

But  not  e'en  ashes  are  here  speaking  of  life  and  its  sleep. 
How   I   would  like  to  behold  some  one  of  the  shapes   in  its 

splendor 

Rise  now  out  of  this  stone,  in  a  new  Delphian  birth, 
And  with  the  flow  of  the  folds  sweep  there  through  the  Halls 

of  Apollo, 

Mid  the  high  columns  that  shine  as  in  the  days  of  the  God ! 
But  the  fair  body  has  perished  in  spite  of  the  strength  of  the 

'fortress : 

So  Elpinike  thou  too  must  by  dark  Death  be  entombed. 
But  let  us  fly  from  the  thought  —  let  us  hurry  away  to  the 

Olives : 
There  cheerless  Acheron's  stream  dries  in  the  sheen  of  the 

leaves, 

There  are  the  happy  domains  of  our  Eros  illumed  by  the  sun 
beams, 

240 


DENTON  JAQUES  SNIDER 

There  let  us  know  what  is  love,  yielding  to  honeyed  caress, 
While  the  Hours  still  lend  us  their  wings  and  bedew  the  sweet 
senses : 

For  I  feel  sorely  afraid,  love  may  not  be  after  death; 
Eros,  the  gladsome,  flees  from  the  gloomy  regard  of  grim  Pluto, 

But  the  Olives  he  seeks,  sporting  his  wings  in  the  trees; 
Nor  will  Apollo,  the  light-darter,  descend  to  the  realm  of  Hades, 

Only  over  the  Earth  hovers  his  gold-dropping  car. 


Seasons  depart  and  return  with  delight  to  the  Delphian  hill-side. 

Disappear  for  a  time  but  are  restored  with  new  birth; 
High  Parnassus,  propped  on  its  pillars,  knows  no  mutation. 

Though  for  the  summer  it  change  merely  its  vestment  of  snow ; 
Ever  green   are  the   pines   that   slope   down  the   sides   of   the 
mountain, 

While  the  leaf  of  the  bush  hints,  when  it  falls,  the  new  bud ; 
Still  too  Castalia  is  here  —  the  perennial  musical  runnel, 

Singing  the  same  happy  strain  heard  by  the  poets  of  old ; 
But,  ah  youth,  the  fairest,  supremest  blossom  of  Nature 

Passes  away  at  its  bloom  by  irreversible  law; 
Man,  the  top  of  creation,  decays,  and  soon  drops  into  ashes  — 

Flung  by  time  on  the  earth  as  a  mere  handful  of  dust. 
What  is  fairest  must  die,  its  place  is  soon  filled  by  another, 

While  there  endures  the  rude  rock  ages  on  ages  the  same. 


241 


SARAH  CHAUNCEY  WOOLSEY 

SARAH    CHAUNCEY    WOOLSEY    ("Susan    Coolidge") 
was  born  in  Cleveland,  Ohio,  January  29,  1845.     She  was 
a  daughter  of  John  Mumford  and  Jane  (Andrews)  Wool- 
sey,  and  a  niece  of  Dr.  Theodore  Woolsey,  ex-president  of  Yale 
College.     Inheriting  from  her  forebears  a  decided  literary  pro 
clivity,  she  early  won  distinction  as  a  writer  of  poems  and  prose 
sketches,  many  of  which  she  contributed,  under  her  pen-name, 
to  newspapers  and  magazines.    In  1874  Miss  Woolsey  removed 
to  Newport,  R.  I.,  where  she  resided  until  the  date  of  her  death, 
April  9,   1905. 

In  a  brief  characterization  of  the  author  and  her  work,  the 
editor  of  The  Outlook  writes:  "Her  personality  was  unusually 
interesting.  She  had  a  marked  individuality,  delightful  humor, 
conversational  ability  of  a  rare  order,  and  many  intellectual 
resources.  She  came  of  a  family  distinguished  for  generations 
by  dignity  of  character  and  cultivation  of  mind;  her  own  edu 
cation  was  exceptionally  careful  and  thorough.  Her  interests 
were  manifold.  She  wrote  with  great  ease,  and  her  work,  both 
in  verse  and  prose,  had  a  very  delightful  quality." 

GULF-STREAM  x 

Lonely  and  cold  and  fierce  I  keep  my  way, 

Scourge  of  the  lands,  companioned  by  the  storm, 

Tossing  to  heaven  my  frontlet,  wild  and  gray, 
Mateless,  yet  conscious  ever  of  a  warm 

And  brooding  presence  close  to  mine  all  day. 

What  is  this  alien  thing,  so  near,  so  far, 

Close  to  my  life  always,  but  blending  never? 


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242 


SARAH  CHAUNCEY  WOOLSEY 

Hemmed  in  by  walls  whose  crystal  gates  unbar 

Not  at  the  instance  of  my  strong  endeavor 
To  pierce  the  stronghold  where  their  secrets  are? 

Buoyant,  impalpable,  relentless,  thin, 

Rise  the  clear,  mocking  walls.    I  strive  in  vain 

To  reach  the  pulsing  heart  that  beats  within, 
Or  with  persistence  of  a  cold  disdain, 

To  quell  the  gladness  which  I  may  not  win. 

Forever  sundered  and  forever  one, 

Linked  by  a  bond  whose  spell  I  may  not  guess, 
Our  hostile,  yet  embracing  currents  run; 

Such  wedlock  lonelier  is  than  loneliness. 
Baffled,  withheld,  I  clasp  the  bride  I  shun. 

Yet  even  in  my  wrath  a  wild  regret 
Mingles ;  a  bitterness  of  jealous  strife 

Tinges  my  fury  as  I  foam  and  fret 

Against  the  borders  of  that  calmer  life, 

Beside  whose  course  my  wrathful  course  is  set. 

But  all  'my  anger,  all  my  pain  and  woe, 

Are  vain  to  daunt  her  gladness;  all  the  while 

She  goes  rejoicing,  and  I  do  not  know, 
Catching  the  soft  irradiance  of  her  smile, 

If  I  am  most  her  lover  or  her  foe. 

GOOD-BYE  * 

The    interlacing   verdurous    screen 
Of  the  stanch  woodbine  still  is  green, 
And  thickly  set  with  milk-white  blooms 
Gold-anthered,  breathing  out  perfumes; 
The  clematis  on  trellis  bars 
Still  flaunts  with  white  and  purple  stars; 


Copyrighted  by  I,ittle,  Brown  &  Company. 

243 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

No  missing  leaf  has  thinner  made 
The   obelisks   of  maple   shade; 
Fresh  beech  boughs  flutter  in  the  breeze 
Which,  warm  as  summer,  stirs  the  trees; 
The  sun  is  clear,  the  skies  are  blue: 
But  still  a  sadness  filters  through 
The  beauty  and  the  bloom;  and  we, 
Touched  by  some  mournful  prophecy, 
Whisper  each  day:    "Delay,  delay! 
Make  not  such  haste  to  fly  away!" 
And  they,  with  silent  lips,  reply: 
"Summer  is  gone;  we  may  not  stay. 
Summer  is  gone.     Good-bye!  good-bye!" 

Roses  may  be  as   fragrant  air 
As  in  the  sweet  June  days  they  were; 
No  hint  of  frost  may  daunt  as  yet 
The  clustering  brown  mignonette, 
Nor  chilly  wind  forbid  to  ope 
The  odorous,   fragile  heliotrope; 
The  sun  may  be  as  warm  as  May, 
The  night  forbear  to  chase  the  day, 
And  hushed  in  false  security 
All  the  sweet  realm  of  Nature  be : 
But  the  South-loving  birds  have  fled, 
By  their  mysterious  instinct  led; 
The  butterflies  their  nests  have  spun, 
And  donned  their  silken  shrouds  each  one; 
The  bees  have  hived  them  fast,  while  we 
Whisper  each  day:     "Delay,  delay! 
Make  not  such  haste  to  fly  away!" 
And  all,  with  pitying  looks,  reply: 
"Summer  is  fled;  we  may  not  stay. 
Summer  is  gone.    Good-bye!  good-bye!" 


244 


SARAH  CHAUNCEY  WOOLSEY 

BEREAVED  * 

When  Lazarus  from  his  three  days'  tomb 
Fronted  with  dazzled  eyes  the  day, 

And  all  the  amazed  crowd  made  room, 
As,  wrapped  in  shroud,  he  went  his  way, 

His  sisters  daring  scarce  to  touch 

His  hand,  their  wonderment  was  such; 

When  friends  and  kindred  met  at  meat, 
And  in  the  midst  the  man  just  dead 

Sat  in  his  old-time  wonted  seat, 

And  poured  the  wine,  and  shared  the  bread 

With  the  old  gesture  that  they  knew, — 

Were  they  all  glad,  those  sisters  two? 

Did  they  not  guess  a  hidden  pain 

In  the  veiled  eyes  which  shunned  their  gaze; 

A  dim  reproach,  a  pale  disdain 
For  human  joys  and  human  ways; 

A  loneliness  too  deep  for  speech, 

Which  all  their  love  might  never  reach? 

And  as  the  slowly  ebbing  days 

Went  by,  and  Lazarus  went  and  came 

Still  with  the  same  estranged  gaze, 
His  loneliness  and  loss  the  same, 

Did  they  not  whisper  as  they  grieved, 
"We  are  consoled  —  and  he  bereaved"? 

Oh,  weeper  by  a  new-heaped  mound, 
Who  vexes  Heaven  with  outcries  vain, 

That,  if  but  for  one  short  hour's  round, 
Thy  heart's  desire  might  come  again, — 

The  buried  form,  the  vanished  face, 

The  silent  voice,  the  dear  embrace, — 


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245 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Think  if  he  came,  as  Lazarus  did, 
But  came  reluctant,  with  surprise, 

And  sat  familiar  things  amid 
With  a  new  distance  in  his  eyes, 

A  distance  death  had  failed  to  set, — 

If  hearts  met  not  when  bodies  met! 

If  when  you  smiled  you  heard  him  sigh, 
And  when  you  spoke  he  only  heard 

As  men  absorbed  hear  absently 
The  idle  chirping  of  a  bird, 

As,  rapt  in  thoughts  surpassing  speech, 

His  mind  moved  on  beyond  your  reach; 

And  still  your  joy  was  made  his  pain, 
And  still  the  distance  wider  grew, 

His  daily  loss  your  daily  gain, 

Himself  become  more  strange  to  you 

Than  when  your  following  soul  sought  his 

In  the  vast  secret  distances; — 

If,  death  once  tasted,  life  seemed  vain 

To  please  or  tempt  or  satisfy, 
And  all  his  longing  was  again 

To  be  released  and  free  to  die, 
To  get  back  to  scarce-tasted  bliss, — • 
What  grief  could  be  so  sharp  as  this  ? 

ASHES 1 

I  saw  the  gardener  bring  and  strow 
Gray  ashes  where  blush  roses  grew. 

The  fair,  still  roses  bent  them  low, 

Their  pink  cheeks  dimpled  all  with  dew, 

And  seemed  to  view  with  pitying  air 

The  dim  gray  atoms  lying  there. 


1  Copyrighted  by  I<ittle,  Brown  &  Company. 

246 


SARAH  CHAUNCEY  WOOLSEY 

Ah,  bonny  rose,  all  fragrances, 
And  life  and  hope  and  quick  desires, 

What  can  you  need  or  gain  from  these 
Poor  ghosts  of  long- forgotten  fires? 
The  rose-tree  leans,  the  rose-tree  sighs, 
And  wafts  this  answer  subtly  wise : 
"All  death,  all  life  are  mixed  and  blent, 
Out  of  dead  lives  fresh  life  is  sent, 
Sorrow  to  these  is  growth  for  me, 
And  who  shall  question  God's  decree  ?" 

Ah,  dreary  life,  whose  gladsome  spark 

No  longer  leaps  in  song  and  fire, 
But  lies  in  ashes  gray  and  stark, 

Defeated  hopes  and  dead  desire, 
Useless  and  dull  and  all  bereft, — 
Take  courage,  this  one  thing  is  left: 

Some  happier  life  may  use  thee  so, 
Some  flower  bloom  fairer  on  its  tree, 

Some  sweet  or  tender  thing  may  grow 
To  stronger  life  because  of  thee; 

Content  to  play  a  humble  part, 

Give  of  the  ashes  of  thy  heart, 
And  haply  God,  whose  dear  decrees 
Taketh  from  those  to  give  to  these, 

Who  draws  the  snow-drop  from  the  snows, 

May  from  those  ashes   feed  a  rose. 


THORNS 1 

Roses  have  thorns,  and  love  is  thorny  too; 

And  this  is  love's  sharp  thorn  which  guards  its  flower, 
That  our  beloved  have  the  cruel  power 

To  hurt  us  deeper  than  all  others  do. 


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247 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

The  heart  attuned  to  our  heart  like  a  charm, 
Beat  answering  beat,  as  echo  answers  song, 
If  the  throb  falter,  or  the  pulse  beat  wrong, 

How  shall  it  fail  to  grieve  us  or  to  harm? 

The  taunt  which,  uttered  by  a  stranger's  lips, 

Scarce  heard,  scarce  minded,  passed  us  like  the  wind, 
Breathed  by  a  dear  voice,  which  has  grown  unkind, 

Turns  sweet  to  bitter,  sunshine  to  eclipse. 

The  instinct  of  a  change  we  cannot  prove, 
The  pitiful  tenderness,  the  sad  too-much, 
The  sad  too-little,  shown  in  look  or  touch, — 

All  these  are  wounding  thorns  of  thorny  love. 

Ah,  sweetest  rose  which  earthly  gardens  bear, 
Fought  for,  desired,  life's  guerdon  and  life's  end, 
Although  your  thorns  may  slay  and  wound  and  rend, 

Still  men  must  snatch  you ;  for  you  are  so  fair. 


248 


ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON 

A, ICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON,  daughter  of  Alfred 
Baldwin  Williams  and  Ruth  Hoge  (Johnson)  Williams, 
was  born  in  Cambridge,  Ind.  In  her  girlhood  she 
accompanied  her  parents  to  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  where,  except  for 
short  periods  of  residence  in  her  native  State  and  in  St.  Louis, 
Mo.,  she  has  lived  ever  since,  her  present  home  being  on  Locust 
Street,  Walnut  Hills.  Her  education  was  received  mainly  in 
Cincinnati,  where  she  attended  Woodward  High  School,  gradu 
ating  from  that  institution  in  1870.  She  was  married,  October 
18,  1876,  to  Mr.  William  Ernest  Brotherton,  of  Cincinnati.  As 
early  as  the  year  1872  she  began  to  write  for  the  press,  and  in 
recent  years  she  has  been  a  contributor  to  various  leading 
periodicals,  including  the  Century,  Scribner's,  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  St.  Nicholas,  Poet-Lore,  and  the  New  York  Inde 
pendent.  She  is  the  author  of  three  published  volumes :  Beyond 
the  Veil  (poems,  1886)  ;  The  Sailing  of  King  Olaf,  and  Other 
Poems,  (1887)  ;  and  What  the  Wind  Told  the  Tree-Tops  (prose 
and  verse,  1888).  A  number  of  her  lyrics,  among  which  are 
those  entitled  "Rosenlied,"  "The  Song  of  Fleeting  Love,"  "The 
Fisher-Wife's  Lullabye,"  "Unawares,"  "Boys,  Keep  the  Colors 
Up,"  "God  Knows,"  and  "June  Roses,"  have  been  set  to  music. 
For  many  years  Mrs.  Brotherton  has  been  an  efficient  and 
valued  member  of  the  Cincinnati  Woman's  Club  and  a  leading 
spirit  of  the  Cincinnati  Woman's  Press  Club,  of  which  latter 
organization  she  was  several  times  chosen  the  president.  Since 
1892  the  author  has  devoted  much  of  her  thought  and  energy  to 
the  preparation  of  critical  essays  and  addresses  on  Shakespeare, 
the  drama,  and  other  literary  topics;  and  she  has  delivered 
numerous  lectures  before  study-clubs,  women's  clubs,  and  dra 
matic  schools. 


249 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

THE  BLAZING  HEART  x 

Who  are  ye,  spirits,  that  stand 

In  the  outer  gloom, 
Each  with  a  blazing  heart  in  hand, 
Which  lighteth  the  dark  beyond  the  tomb? 

"Oh,  we  be  souls  that  loved 
Too  well,  too  well ! 

Yet,  for  that  love,  though  sore  reproved, 
(Oh,  sore  reproved!)  have  we  'scaped  hell. 

"  'Scaped  hell,  but  gained  not  heaven. 

Woe,  woe  and  alas ! 
Only  —  to  us  this  grace  is  given, 
To  light  the  dark  where  the  dead  must  pass. 

"Behind  us  the  shadows  throng, 
And  the  mists  are  gray; 
But  our  blazing  hearts  light  the  soul  along 
From  grave  to  yon  gate  that  hides  the  day." 

Who  may  this  lady  be 

At  my  right  hand? 
"This  is  the  heart  which  for  Antony 
Changed  from  soft  flesh  to  a  burning  brand." 

"This  for  Aeneas  glowed, 
Is  glowing  still." 

"This  kindled  for  Phaon;  the  flame  it  showed 
No  waters  of  ocean  could  quench  or  kill." 

This   shape,   with   the   flowing  hair? 

"She  loved  so  much 

That  even  the  Sinless  heard  her  prayer, 
Pitied  her  pangs,  and  suffered  her  touch." 


From  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

250 


ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON 

Bid  the  sounds  of  crackling  cease! 

"They  blaze,  they  burn!" 
Let  me  flee  back  to  my  coffined  peace ! 
'Pass  on   (they  beckon)  ;  there's  no  return." 

Spirits,  why  press  ye  close? 
I  am  faint  with  fear! 
'Already  thy  heart  like  an  ember  glows; 
Pluck  it  forth  from  thy  bosom,  thy  place  is  here." 

Happy    Francesca !    thine 

Is  the  fairer  lot. 
Better  with  him  in  hell  to  pine 
Than  stand  in  cool  shadows  by  him  forgot ! 

ROSENLIED 1 

I 
I  said  to  the  rose,  "O  rose! 

What  was  it  the  nightingale  sang? 
For  all  night  beneath  my  lattice 
In  the  dusk  his  clear  notes  rang." 

Then  the  hue  of  the  crimson  rose 

Was  dyed  a  lovelier  red, 
And  she  trembled  with  passionate  longing, 

And  drooped  her  gentle  head. 

"Last  night  beside  the  lattice, 

Before  the  white  moon  set, 

Two  stood  within  the  shadow  — 

O  heart!  dost  thou  forget? 

"A  kiss ;  and  two  hands  close  clinging 

In  a  silent,  long  troth-plight, — 
O  heart,  O  heart,  thou  knowest 

What  the  nightingale  sang  all  night!" 


From  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

251 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

ROSENLIED  * 

II 
The  nightingale  sang  to  the  rose 

Through  the  livelong,  night, 
Till  its  hue  from  a  ruby-red 

Turned  wan  and  white. 
All  night  it  rose  and  fell  — 

That  silvery  strain, 
And  the  heart  of  the  red  rose  throbbed 

With  divinest  pain: 

'O  love,  O  love!"  (it  rang), 

"I  love  but  thee. 
Thou  art  queen  of  all  flowers,"  (he  sang), 

"And  queen  of  me! 
O  love,  my  love !"  he  said. 

Before  the  dawn 
The  rose  on  its  stalk  hung  dead. 
The  bird  was  gone. 


THE  POISON  FLASK 
[Temp.   Louis   XV.] 

A  crystal  flasket:  one  drop  (ay,  that's  all) 

Of  its  clear  contents  well  administered  — 
Dripped  in  the  succory  water,  say, —  she'll  fall 

Dead  in  a  flash,  with  no  accusing  word. 
Not  that  I  mean  to  do  it !    Nay,  the  nerve 

Is  scarce  mine.    Something,  though,  it  is,  to  hold 
Here  in  my  hand  the  subtle  spell  might  serve 

To  stretch  that  supple  body  stiff  and  cold! 

Gods,  how  I  hate  her! — with  those  sleepy  eyes 
Like  two  gray  agates  filled  with  lambent  light !  — 


1  From  the  Century  Magazine. 

252 


ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON 

Hate  that  full  bosom's  lazy  fall  and  rise, 

The  red  ripe  lips,  the  cheek's  vermeil  and  white ! 

I  loathe  your  lush  blonde  beauties.    I  am  dark  — 
Small  and  so  dark  —  eyes,  brows  and  dusky  hair, 

My  skin's  a  clearer  white  than  hers,  though,  mark, — 
If  she  were  gone  the  king  would  find  me  fair. 

//  she  were  gone. — This  liqueur  has  the  hue 

Of  liquid  diamonds.    What  a  flash  that  was! 
This  gold  top's  chasing,  now,  is  curious,  too: 

How  clear  the  crystal  is  and  free  from  flaws. 
Venetian?  —  fit  to  hold  (the  chymist  said) 

These  Medicean  drops  —  the  very  same 
That  Catherine  used  to  mingle  with  the  red 

Wine  draught  of  certain  friends  who  crossed  her  game. 

If  Artemise  were  gone.     A  better  way 

Might  be  —  to  spoil  her  beauty  by  the  art 
Of  some  infernal  wash,  some  acid,   say, 

In  her  cosmetics,  to  eat,  scar,  and  smart. 
That  is  a  wild  dream  only !    What  I  seek 

Is  something  quick  and  final. —  Not  a  trace 
Left  of  the  method. —  Dead  folks  never  speak, 

Even  if  they  return  to  haunt  the  place. 

A  poisoned  ring  would  be  at  once  suspect, 

That's  such  an  old  device;  and  the  bouquet, 
And  gloves  with  poisoned  perfumes,  all  reject 

Save  the  'mere  novice.    If  —  mind  if,  I  say, — 
The  deed  were  done  with  this,  there  is  no  clue 

Whereby  Justice  the  author  could  divine. 
She  lives  but  at  my  will !    And  I  —  I  know 

If  she  were  gone  the  king  —  the  king  were  mine! 

How  small  the  flask  is.   Small  enough  to  swing 
Here  at  my  girdle  with  the  silver  keys 

Held  by  the  chatelaine.     I'll  wear  the  thing 
Just  so  upon  the  chain;  and  if  she  sees 

253 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

And  wonders  at  the  bauble,  I  reply 

It  is  — 'tis  my  scent  flasket,  vinaigrette !  — 

No,  no!     I'll  wear  it  not!    I'll  put  it  by 
In  the  carved  casket  there  with  jewels  set. 

So,  then,  I  turn  the  key  upon  the  flask 

Of  liquid  death.    I  shall  not  use  it  —  No. 
But  it  is  sweet  to  feel  how  slight  a  task 

'Twould  be  to  bring  her  insolent  beauty  low. 
I'll  keep  it  then;  sometimes,  perhaps,  unlock 

The  casket's  secret  drawer,  hang  gloating  o'er 
My  deadly  treasure. —  Ha !    Was  that  a  knock  ? 

Some  one  is  standing  just  without  the  door. 

Tis  Artemise  herself.    "Yes !    Enter,  straight." 

What  means  the  look  of  triumph  in  her  eye? 
"How  radiant,  sweet !  —  robed  as  for  some  grand  fete ! 

What  lovely  pearls !  —  a  queen  for  such  might  sigh. 
Ah  —  How?    You  dine  tonight,  love,  with  the  king? 

You  happy  girl !    Nay,  wait  one  moment  yet. 
I'll  scarce  ten  seconds  keep  you  tarrying. 

See!    I  but  fasten  on  —  my  vinaigrette." 

MY  ENEMY  * 

I 

My  foe  was  dark,  and  stern,  and  grim, 
I  lived  my  life  in  fear  of  him. 
I  passed  no  secret,  darkened  nook 
Without  a  shuddering,  furtive  look, 
Lest  he  should  take  me  unawares 
In  some  one  of  his  subtle  snares. 
Even  in  broad  noon  the  thought  of  him 
Turned  all  the  blessed  sunlight  dim, 
Stole  the  rich  color  from  the  rose, 
The  perfume  from  the  elder-blows. 


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ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON 

I  saw  him  not,  I  heard  no  sound; 
But  traces  everywhere  I  found 
Of  his  fell  plotting.    Now,  the  flower 
Most  prized  lay  blasted  by  his  power; 
From  the  locked  casket,  rent  apart, 
The  jewel  dearest  to  my  heart 
Was  stolen;  or,  from  out  the  dark, 
Some  swift  blow  made  my  heart  its  mark. 

Sweet  eyes  I  loved  grew  glazed  and  dim 
That  had  but  caught  a  glimpse  of  him; 
And  ears,  were  wont  to  hear  each  sigh 
Of  mine,  were  deafened  utterly, 
Even  to  my  shrieks ;  and  lips  I  pressed, 
Struck  a  cold  horror  to  my  breast. 

This  hath  he  done,  my  enemy. 

From  him,  O  God,  deliver  me ! 

II 

I  reached  but  now  this  place  of  gloom 
Through  yon  small  gateway,  where  is  room 
For  only  one  to  pass.     This  calm 
Is  healing  as  a  Sabbath  psalm. 
A  sound,  as  if  the  hard  earth  slid 
Down-rattling   on    a   coffin-lid, 
Was  in  mine  ears.    Now  all  is  still, 
And  I  am  free  to  fare  at  will  — 
Whither?     I  seem  but  tarrying 
For  one  who  doth  a  message  bring. 

Who  meets  me  in  the  way,  whose  face 

Is  radiant  with  an  angel's  grace? 

Smiling,  he  saith   in  underbreath: 
"I  am  thy  foe  long  dreaded, —  Death." 
"O  Death,  sweet  Death,  and  is  it  thou 

I  called  mine  enemy  but  now?" 

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POETS  OF  OHIO 

I  place  my  trusting  palms  in  his, 
And  lift  my  chill  lips  for  his  kiss. 
"Press  close,  be  near  me  to  the  end, 
When  all  are  fled,  my  one  true  friend !" 

"Yea,  friend,"  he  answereth.    "All,  and  more 
Than  all  I  took,  do  I  restore  — 
Blossom  and  jewel,  youth  and  hope; 
And  see,  this  little  key  doth  ope 
The  shining  portal  that  we  see, 
Beyond  which  —  love  awaiteth  thee." 
"O  blinded  eyes!    Ah,  foolish  heart! 
Adieu,  dear  Death  —  one  kiss !    We  part." 

THE  LIVING  PAST 

"Let  us  bury  the  dead  past."     Ay, 
Let  us  bury  it  close  and  deep. 
But  what  if  it  stir  in  its  grave  and  cry? 
What  if  it  rise  to  haunt  our  sleep? 
Rend  from  its  features  the  cerement  bands; 
With  grinning  skull  instead  of  a  head 
Stand  by  our  side  and  wring  its  hands  ? 
Ah,  what  —  if  the  past  be  not  dead?" 

The  heart  of  man  is  a  living  thing. 
You  think  to  slay  it  and  lay  it  to  rest; 
But,  on  a  day,  it  will  rise  and  fling 
The  grave-cloths  off  from  face  and  breast. 
You  think  to  gloss  with  a  glaze  of  ice 
The  waters  that  lie  so  darkly  still : 
The  tide  will  rise  till  it  dare  the  skies, 
The  ocean  laughs  at  your  puny  will. 

The  past,  we  say;  but  there  is  no  past  — 
The  past  is  the  present  and  future  too. 
It  is  only  a  lie  that  does  not  last; 
The  truth  is  life,  and  it  springs  anew, 

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ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON 

Though  you  bury  it  deep  and  stamp  it  down. 
A  deed  that  is  done  is  a  stubborn  thing: 
When  the  mould  is  turned  and  the  seed  is  sown, 
Can  we  change  the  harvest  for  sorrowing? 

Deeds  are  the  letters  with  which  we  spell 
God's  meaning  out,  in  this  world  of  ours. 
Dare  we  change  His  text?    One  stroke  expel, 
The  storm  of  His  wrath  that  instant  lowers. 
Facts  are  stern,  and  hard,  and  grim  — 
They  change  not;  but  —  if  we  read  them  right  — 
Some  day  the  message  they  hold  from  Him 
Gleams  forth  in  letters  of  living  light. 

A  PERSIAN  FABLE 

Before  the  close-barred  gate  of  Paradise 

A  poor  man  watched  a  thousand  years;  then  dozed 

One  little  instant  only,  with  dulled  eyes : 

That  instant  open  swung  the  gate  —  and  closed. 

CAMPION  i 

I  placed  a  scarlet  campion  flower 

In  the  wreathed  tresses  of  my  head. 
"No  damosel  in  hall  or  bower 

Is  fairer  than  my  love,"  he  said. 

Years  after  in  a  folded  book 
I  found  a  withered  campion  flower; 

And  paled,  with  that  swift  backward  look 
That  ghost-seers  have  at  twilight  hour. 

O  withered  heart,  O  love  long  dead! 

"Poor  faded  flower  that  shone  so  fair, 
Well  suits  thy  phantom  bloom"  (I  said) 

"With  the  white  tresses  of  my  hair." 


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POETS  OF  OHIO 

THE  SPINNER 
From  the  German  of  Voss 

I  sat  and  spun  before  my  door: 

A  youth  along  the  road  came  straying, 

His  hazel  eyes  a  deep  smile  wore, 

And  blushes  on  his  cheek  were  playing ; 

My  glance  was  from  the  distaff  won, 

I  sat  abashed,  and  spun  and  spun. 

In  friendly  tones,  "Good  day!"  he  spoke, 
With  timid  grace  approaching  nigher: 

Startled  was  I,  the  thread  it  broke, 
My  foolish  heart  leapt  high  and  higher. 

The  thread  once  more  I  fastened  on, 

And  sat  abashed,  and  spun  and  spun. 

He  clasped,  with  tender  touch,  my  hand, 
And  vowed  none  could  with  it  compare  — 

The  very  loveliest  in  the  land, 

So  swan-white,  plump  and  dainty  fair! 

As  with  his  praise  my  heart  he  won 

I  sat  abashed,  and  spun  and  spun. 

Upon  my  chair  he  laid  his  arm, 

(And  praised  the  finely-wroughten  thread. 

So  near  his  mouth,  so  red  and  warm, 
How  gently :  "Sweetest  maid !"  it  said ! 

The  while  he  gazed  my  face  upon 

I  sat  abashed,  and  spun  and  spun. 

His  handsome  face  toward  my  own 

'Meantime  he  bent  with  glances  winning; 

It  touched,  by  some  odd  chance  unknown, 
iMy  head  that  nodded  in  the  spinning: 

He  kissed  me,  this  audacious  one !  — 

I  sat  abashed,  and  spun  and  spun. 


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ALICE  WILLIAMS  BROTHERTON 

I  turned,  reproof  in  earnest  tone 
Upon  his  forwardness  bestowing; 

He  clasped  me  close  and,  bolder  grown, 
He  kissed  my  face  with  blushes  glowing. 

O  tell  me  sisters  —  every  one ! 

Is  't  strange  that  now  no  more  I  spun? 


SHAKESPEARE  1 

Working  as  erst  by  law,  not  miracle, 
By  genius  God  doth  lift  a  common  soul 
To  some  still  spot  where  it  may  glimpse  the  goal ; 

Bidding  it  on  the  mountain  heights  to  dwell, 

Yet  not  so  far  apart  but  it  may  tell 

To  toilers  in  the  plain  below  the  whole 
Of  the  vision.     Master,  still  the  organ-roll 

Of  thy  deep  music  vibrates,  and  its  spell 

Aids  the  uplift  that  stirs  our  grosser  clay 

To  rise  and  seek  the  heights.    O  soul  God  set 
A  little  lower  than  his  white  angels,  yet 

A  round  for  man  to  climb  the  starward  way 

Thou  art.     One  palm  with  angels'  long  since  met, 

The  other  warm  in  man's  grasp  still  doth  stay. 


WOMAN  AND  ARTIST 

To  E.  W.  T. 

If  she  neglected  one  especial  gift 
And  turned  from  laurel  crowns  she  might  have  won, 
From  the  high  tasks  that  genius  might  have  done, 
Dropping  the  pencil  or  the  brush  to  lift 
Wee  baby  feet  across  the  stones,  to  sift 
Meanings  from  childish  prattle,  and  to  croon 
Low,  tender,  cradle-songs  in  dreamy  tone; 
Catching  from  baby  eyes,  as  through  a  rift 


Copyright,  1890,  by  Charles  H.  Crandall. 

259 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

In  clouds,  the  light  of  heaven. —  Is  this  a  lot 
To  be  deplored?     Nay,  would  she  if  she  could 
Exchange?      First,   woman  —  after,   poet  —  what 
You  will !    Her  soul  has  seized  the  greater  good : 
The  dizzy  heights  of  Fame  were  well  forgot 
To  sound  the  wondrous  depths  of  Motherhood. 


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EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS 

EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS  was  born  in  the  village  of 
Chatham,  Medina  County,  Ohio,  August  12,  1854.  Her 
parents,  Frederick  J.  Thomas  and  Jane  Louisa  (Sturges) 
Thomas,  the  former  of  whom  was  of  Welsh,  and  the  latter,  of 
English  ancestry,  were  both  natives  of  New  England,  and  her 
mother's  grandfather  was  a  patriotic  soldier  in  the  Revolutionary 
War.  In  Edith's  infancy  the  family  moved  to  Ken  ton,  Ohio, 
and  in  the  year  1859,  to  Bowling  Green,  where  her  father,  a 
prominent  teacher,  died  in  1861.  Soon  thereafter  the  widowed 
mother  and  her  three  daughters  removed  to  Geneva,  Ohio,  where 
the  subject  of  this  sketch  received  her  academic  education,  at  the 
Normal  Institute,  from  which  she  graduated  in  1872,  at  the  age  of 
eighteen. 

After  a  brief  experience  as  a  teacher,  in  Geneva,  Ohio,  Miss 
Thomas  resolved  to  make  the  pursuit  of  literature  a  profession. 
Her  career  as  an  author  may  be  said  to  have  begun  in  early 
childhood,  when,  in  her  first  efforts  at  composition,  she  displayed 
a  precocious  ability  which  was  observed  by  her  parents  and 
teachers,  from  whom,  in  the  formative  years  of  her  girlhood, 
she  received  judicious  encouragement.  "While  a  student," 
we  are  told,  "she  had  contributed  verses  to  various  news 
papers,  and  these  had  been  widely  copied,  the  marks  of  inspi 
ration  they  bore  being  quickly  recognized  by  lovers  of  genuine 
poetry.  The  freshness  of  expression,  the  buoyant  tone,  and  the 
exquisite  finish  of  her  lines,  set  them  in  strong  contrast  to  those 
produced  by  most  writers  of  the  time;  and  the  first  to  call 
attention  to  these  qualities  and  to  give  the  new  singer  a  wel 
come,  was  Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  who  introduced  her  to  the 
editors  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly  and  the  Century,  and  thus  to 


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POETS  OF  OHIO 

a  larger  circle  of  readers  than  she  had  yet  addressed."1  In  1888, 
the  year  following  that  of  her  mother's  death,  Miss  Thomas 
removed  from  Geneva,  Ohio,  to  New  York  City,  where,  at  her 
home  in  West  New  Brighton,  on  Staten  Island,  she  has  ever 
since  devoted  herself  to  literature,  being  a  frequent  contributor 
to  the  Century,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Scribner's,  and  other  lead 
ing  magazines. 

The  originality,  beauty,  and  power  of  her  lyrical  productions 
have  won  for  Miss  Thomas  the  universal  admiration  and  ap 
plause  of  critics.  By  a  recent  Ohio  historian,  in  a  review  of 
the  literature  of  the  State,  she  is  extolled  as  "a  divinely  favored 
poet, —  one  who  has  'slept  on  the  Mountain  of  Song/  and 
brought  home  pure  Parnassian  dews;"  and  Edmund  Clarence 
Stedman,  in  his  American  Anthology,  after  commenting  on  the 
strength,  the  delicacy,  and  the  exquisite  classicism  of  her  verse, 
declares  of  the  author  that  "her  place  is  secure  among  the  truest 
living  poets  of  our  English  tongue."  It  may  further  be  asserted, 
confidently,  that  Miss  Thomas,  in  her  peculiar  domain  of  lyric 
art,  is  unrivaled;  and  that  for  originality  and  breadth  of  concep 
tion,  depth  of  feeling,  classic  dignity  and  finish,  haunting  melody, 
and  ease  of  execution,  her  best  poems  have  rarely  been  equaled 
by  any  writer  of  her  sex  on  either  side  of  the  Atlantic.  As  a 
master  of  the  sonnet  form  she  has  few  compeers. 

DEAD  LOW  TIDE 

It  is  dead  low  tide,  and  the  wasted  sea  beats  far; 
Up  from  the  caves  of  the  underworld  slowly  climb 
Night  and  her  shadows  unconquered  from  eldest  time! 
The  cry  of  the  sea-bird  is  hushed  on  the  glimmering  bar, 
And  the  beach,  with  its  strewing  of  dulse,  is  lonely  and  wide: 
It  is  dead  low  tide. 

The  rocks  are  divulged,  that  hidden  and  cruel  lie, 
Under  the  waves  in  wait,  as  the  beast  in  its  lair! 
Huge  and  harmless  they  shoulder  the  dusk  night  air; 

A  lighthouse  gleams  —  they  are  charmed  by  its  sorcerous  eye ! 

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EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS 

The  rocks  are  uncovered,  and  many  a  wreck  beside : 
It  is  dead  low  tide. 

Not  now  shall  the  willing  keel  slip  down  to  the  sea, 
Not  now  shall  the  home-desiring  bark  come  home; 
The  rocking  surge  is  a  dream,  and  the  flying  foam, 
And  the  sails  that  over  the  windy  billows  roam  — 

A  dream!  for  the  sea  is  gone,  and  the  wind  has  died: 
It  is  dead  low  tide. 

There  is  rest  from  motion,  from  toil ;  yet  it  is  not  rest ! 

The  sounds  of  the  land  and  the  sea-sounds  falter  and  cease; 

The  wave  is  at  peace  with  the  shore;  yet  it  is  not  peace! 
As  the  soldier  at  truce,  as  the  pilgrim  detained  on  his  quest, 
Baffled  and  silent,  yet  watchful,  all  things  abide 
The  turn  of  the  tide. 

I  too  abide.     To  the  spirit  within  responds 

The  baffled  yet  watchful  spirit  of  all  things  without. 
"Shall  I  rest  forever,  beleaguered  by  sloth  and  doubt?" 
"Not  so ;  thou  shalt  rise  and  break  the  enchanted  bonds, 
And  the  limit  that  mocked  thee  with  laughter  shalt  override 
At  turn  of  the  tide !" 

Still  higher  the  Night  ascends,  and  star  upon  star 
Arises  by  low-lying  isle,  and  by  headland  steep, 
And  fathoms  with  silver  light  the  slumbering  deep.     .     .     . 

Hark!  was  it  a  lapsing  ripple  along  the  bar? 

Hark !  was  it  the  wind  that  awoke,  remembered,  and  sighed  ? 
Is  it  turn  of  the  tide? 

THEFTS  OF  THE  MORNING 

Bind  us  the  Morning,  mother  of  the  stars 
And  of  the  winds  that  usher  in  the  day ! 
Ere  her  light  fingers  slide  the  eastern  bars, 
A  netted  snare  before  her  footsteps  lay; 
Ere  the  pale  roses  of  the  mist  be  strown, 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own! 

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POETS  OF  OHIO 

With  her  have  passed  all  things  we  held  most  dear, 
Most  subtly  guarded  from  her  amorous  stealth; 
We  nothing  gathered,  toiling  year  by  year, 
But  she  hath  claimed  it  for  increase  of  wealth ; 
Our  gems  make  bright  her  crown,  incrust  her  throne : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own! 

Where  are  they  gone,  who  round  our  myrtles  played, 
Or  bent  the  vines'  rich  fruitage  to  our  hands, 
Or  breathed  deep  song  from  out  the  laurels'  shade  ? 
She  drew  them  to  her ;  who  can  slack  the  bands  ? 
What  lure  she  used,  what  toils,  was  never  known : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own! 

Enough  that  for  her  sake  Orion  died, 
Slain  by  the  silver  Archer  of  the  sky  — 
That  Dion's  prince  amid  her  splendors  wide 
Lies  chained  by  age,  nor  wins  his  prayer  to  die; 
Enough !  but  hark !  our  captive  loves  make  moan : 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own! 

We  have  beheld  them  whom  we  lost  of  old, 

Among  her  choiring  Hours,  in  sorrow  bowed. 

A  moment  gleam  their  faces,  faint  and  cold, 

Through  some  high  oriel  window  wreathed  with  cloud, 

Or  on  the  wind  before  her  they  are  blown: 

Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own ! 

They  do  her  service  at  the  noiseless  looms 

That  weave  the  misty  vesture  of  the  hills ; 

Their  tears  are  drink  to  thirsting  grass  and  blooms, 

Their  breath  the  darkling  wood-bird  wakes  and  thrills; 

Us  too  they  seek,  but  far  adrift  are  thrown: 

Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own! 

Yea,  cry  her  Thief!  from  where  the  light  doth  break 
To  where  it  merges  in  the  western  deep! 

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EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS 

If  aught  of  ours  she,  startled,  should  forsake, 
Such  waifs  the  waiting  Night  for  us  will  keep. 
But  stay  not;   still  pursue  her,  falsely  flown: 
Bind  us  the  Morning,  and  restore  our  own! 


WILD  HONEY 

If  I  follow  the  wild  bee  home, 
And  fell  with  a  ringing  stroke 
The  populous  shaft  of  the  oak, 
•What  shall  I  taste  in  the  comb 
And  the  honey  that  fills  the  comb? 

From  tables  flush  Nature  prepares; 
From  hillside  and  hollow,  and  copse, 
And  blossoming  forest-tops; 
From  fallows  the  husbandman  spares, 
Are  borne  to  me  flavorous  airs. 

I  shall  taste  the  months  and  the  days 
Of  the  season  that  now  is  done; 
I  shall  warm  with  the  wine  of  the  sun, 

Stored,  in  mysterious  ways, 

In  this  secret-builded  maze! 

Then  will  I,  tasting,  say, — 
This  is  arbutus'  gift, 
Reached  from  the  leafy  drift, 

On  a  glistening  April  day; 

And  this  is  the  spirit  of  May. 

This,  which  o'erbubbles  the  brim, 
Is  naught  but  the  essence  of  June; 
And  this  is  July's  rich  boon; 

And  this,  in  which  visions  swim, 

Is  August,  heated  and  dim. 


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POETS  OF  OHIO 

In  these  amber  wards  repose 
The  life  of  the  summer  hours 
And  the  coined  wealth  of  flowers : 

The  breath  of  the  mint  and  wild  rose 

May  sweeten  the  winter  snows ! 

Ye  that  embalm  the  year 

With  spices  and  cerements  meet, 
Drop  on  my  lips  such  sweet 

As  fell  on  the  mouth  severe 

Of  the  Theban  poet-seer: 

Then,  with  a  mellow  tongue, 

In  words  that  have  caught  the  charm 
Of  a  hidden  and  murmuring  swarm, 
I  will  utter  some  notes,  unsung 
Since  time  and  the  world  were  young! 

SYRINX1 

Come  forth,  too  timid  spirit  of  the  reed! 

Leave  thy  plashed  coverts  and  elusions  shy, 
And  find  delight  at  large  in  grove  and  mead. 

No  ambushed  harm,  no  wanton  peering  eye; 
The  shepherd's  uncouth  god  thou  need'st  not  fear,— 
Pan  has  not  passed  this  way  for  many  a  year. 

'Tis  but  the  vagrant  wind  that  makes  thee  start, — 
The  pleasure-loving  south,  the  freshening  west: 

The  willow's  woven  veil  they  softly  part, 
To  fan  the  lily  on  the  stream's  warm  breast: 

No  ruder  stir,  no  footsteps  pressing  near, — 

Pan  has  not  passed  this  way  for  many  a  year. 

Whether  he  lies  in  some  mossed  wood,  asleep, 
And  heeds  not  how  the  acorns  drop  around, 


Syrinx.    In  Greek  mythology,  a  nymph  who  was  changed  by  Pan  into  a  reed. 

266 


EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS 

Or  in  some  shelly  cavern  near  the  deep, 

Lulled  by  its  pulses  of  eternal  sound, 
He  wakes  not,  answers  not  our  sylvan  cheer, — 
Pan  has  been  gone  this  many  a  silent  year. 

Else  we  had  seen  him,  through  the  mists  of  morn, 
To  upland  pasture  lead  his  bleating  charge: 

There  is  no  shag  upon  the  stunted  thorn, 
No  hoof-print  on  the  river's  silver  marge; 

Nor  broken  branch  of  pine,  nor  ivied  spear, — 

Pan  has  not  passed  that  way  for  many  a  year. 

0  tremulous  elf,  reach  me  a  hollow  pipe, 
The  best  and  smoothest  of  thy  mellow  store ! 

Now  I  may  blow  till  Time  be  hoary  ripe, 

And  listening  streams  forsake  the  paths  they  wore 
Pan  loved  the  sound,  but  now  will  never  hear, — 
Pan  has  not  trimmed  a  reed  this  many  a  year ! 

And  so,  come  freely  forth,  and  through  the  sedge 
Lift  up  a  dimpled,  warm,  Arcadian  face, 

As  on  that  day  when  fear  thy  feet  did  fledge, 

And  thou  didst  safely  win  the  breathless  race.     .     . 

1  am  deceived :  nor  Pan  nor  thou  art  here, — 
Pan  has  been  gone  this  many  a  silent  year! 


AVALON  —  FAIR  AVALON  * 

Now,  while  the  leaf-flocks  rise  upon  the  wind, 

Now,  while  the  grass-blade  blanches  with  the  frost, 
Find  we  that  Isle  (of  yore  not  hard  to  find) — 
Refuge  of  all  sweet  things  in  old  time  lost! 
Out  of  a  world  that  grows  austere  and  bleak, 
'Tis  Avalon  —  fair  Avalon  I  seek ! 


1  From  "Cassia,  and  Other  Verse."    Copyright,  1905,  by  Richard  G.  Badger. 

267 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Thou  wilt  not  trust  that  such  a  realm  may  be? 

In  the  mid-rapture  of  her  Perfect  Day, 
Did  summer  never  whisper  unto  thee: 
"Follow  where  undivided   is  my  sway !" 
Thus,  to  my  spirit  did  the  Summer  speak  — 
And  Avalon  —  fair  Avalon  I  seek ! 

I  heard  the  farewell  vesper  of  the  thrush, 

The  meadow-haunting  plover's  last  good-night; 
The  floating  call,  amid  the  twilight  hush, 

Of  wild  fowl,  that  would  thither  wing  their  flight: 
Weak,  though  they  be,  their  courage  is  not  weak; 
And  I  —  fair  Avalon  I,  also,  seek ! 

Why  cling  to  unleafed  grove  and  leafless  field? 

Why  linger  till  the  dearth  of  wintry  hours? 
Why  bear  the  wound  that  may  be  closed  and  healed 
With  balm  nepenthean  pressed  from  wizard  flowers, 
While  thornless  roses  pillow  thy  pale  cheek? 
'Tis  Avalon  —  fair  Avalon   I  seek ! 

There  be  so  many  there  of  dear  esteem  — 

There  be  so  many  there  that  were  storm-tossed, 
That  ventured  all  for  sake  of  some  great  Dream ; 

And  there  they  found  what  they  had  deemed  was  lost ! 
O  Isle  of  all  desire,  from  days  antique  — 
'Tis    Avalon  —  fair   Avalon    I    seek ! 


AT   LETHE'S    BRINK1 
I 

Ye  souls,  of  life  too  fond, 
Why  seek  to  carry  memory  to  the  shades, — 
Those  blessed  seats  in  the  deep  meads  and  glades  ? 

For  me,  I  have  been  bond 


1  From  "Cassia,  and  Other  Verse."    Copyright,  1905,  by  Richard  G.  Badger. 

268 


EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS 

To  griefs  too  many,  and  to  joys  too  fierce : 
Let  neither  with  remembrance  longer  pierce! 

Lead  me,  Caducean  wand, 
Where  the  green  turf  with  Lethe-dew  is  wet; 
There,  my  burnt,  throbbing  temples  will  I  steep; 

I   would   forget     .     .     . 
Oh,  let  me  sink  in  the  Great  Deep  of  Sleep! 

II 

Why  would  ye  beckon  dreams? 
To  set  the  thorn,  where  never  grew  the  thorn? 
To  make  sweet  rest  a  mockery  forlorn? 

To  give  the  silent  streams 
Of  this  fair,  twilight  Country,  where  we  go, 
The  burden  of  the  song  we  too  well  know? 

To  feign  the  hot  noon  beams 

Strike  the  bow'd  head  (where  noon  came  never  yet)  ? 
Far,  far  from  me  the  soothless  dream-throng  keep! 

I   would   forget     .     .     . 
Oh,  let  me  sink  in  the  Great  Deep  of  Sleep! 

Ill 

Ay,  bid  adieu  to  all; 

Nor  grieve  that  one,  the  sweetest,  stays  behind. 
Be  deaf  unto  his  cries ;  and  be  ye  blind 

To  looks  that  would  enthrall; 
For  Love,  most  far  of  all  the  clamant  throng 
That  held  the  fevered  hands  of  Life  so  long, 

Follows  with  haunting  call : 
Hence,  most  of  all,  to  him  the  bound  be  set  — 
Between  us,  thrice  the  lustral  waters  creep! 

I  must  forget     .     .     . 
Oh,  let  me  sink  in  the  Great  Deep  of  Sleep! 

IV 

But  ye;  why  doubt  to  drink, — 
Ye  spirits  that  from  many  a  land  and  zone 

269 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Of  the  wide  earth,  with  me  are  hither  blown, — 

Why  stand  ye  at  the  brink 

A  timorous  throng,  who,  erewhiles,  have  besought 
That  ye  might  cease  from  toils,  from  strife,  from  thought? 

Why,  therefore,  do  ye  shrink? 
Follow,  and  quaff  with  closed  eye;  and  let 
The  sight  draw  inward,  while  the  shadows  sweep.     .     .     . 

I   would   forget     .     .     . 
And  now     ...     I  sink  in  the  Great  Deep  of  Sleep. 


VERTUMNUS  l 

I  took  a  day,  and  sought  for  him 
Through  bosky  aisles  untracked  and  dim, 
Through  cultured  field  and  orchard  sweet :  - 
Did  I  o'ertake  his  flying  feet? 

Once,  as  I  crossed  a  sylvan  glade, 
My  step  the  green-brier  would  have  stayed; 
The  violet  looked  as  it  would  speak, 
And  the  wild-service,  white  and  meek, 
Against  my  face  its  coolness  laid; 
And  once  the  dew  on  blended  blade 
Turned  towards  the  sun  a  sparkling  eye, 
As  flushed  and  eager  I  sped  by. 

As  I  sped  by,  as  I  sped  by, — 
And  fervid  noon  was  in  the  sky, 
And  sickles  rested  on  the  swath, — 
One  bearded  stalk  awoke  from  sloth, 
And  lightly  swayed  it  to  and  fro 
Till  all  its  fellows  swayed  arow ; 
And  where  no  breathed  sound  had  been 
Went  bickering  whispers  fine  and  thin. 


Vertumnus.    In  Roman  mythology,  "god  of  the  changing  year." 

270 


EDITH  MATILDA  THOMAS 

As  I  ran  on,  as  I  ran  on, — 

Some  boughs  grown  bright  and  some  grown  wan, 

And  creeping  leafy  fires  wide  spread, — 

All  suddenly  the  hazel  shed 

Before  my  feet  its  umbered  mast, 

The  oak  a  shower  of  acorns  cast, 

The  vine  swung  low  its  clusters  blue, 

The  star-flower  elvish  glances  threw. 

Morn  was  I  when  the  chase  began ; 
Close  on  the  evening-bound  I  ran; 
And,  counting  but  a  rounded  day, 
Lo,  seasons  three  had  slipped  away! 
An  hundred  times  the  clue  I  missed, 
Too  rapt  to  pause,  to  look,  and  list, — 
An  hundred  times,  unweeting,  trod 
Straight  past  the  merry,  masking  god. 

A  RAINBOW 

Large  glistening  drops  stood  in  her  eyes, 

But  yet  could  win  no  leave  to  flow; 
And  I,  not  willing  to  surprise 

The  tears  she  would  not  show, — * 

I  looked  another  way. 
Some  smiling  words,  at  last,  she  spake; 

Then  down  the  tears  dropped  unconfined. 
This  sun  and  shower  conspired  to  make 

A  rainbow  in  my  mind, 

That  lingers  to  this  day. 

MIGRATION 

The  caged  bird,  that  all  the  autumn  day 

In  quiet  dwells,  when  falls  the  autumn  eve 

Seeks  how  its  liberty  it  may  achieve, 

Beats  at  the  wires  and  its  poor  wings  doth  fray: 

271 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

For  now  desire  of  migrant  change  holds  sway; 
This  summer-vacant  land  it  longs  to  leave, 
While  its  free  peers  on  tireless  pinions  cleave 
The  haunted  twilight,  speeding  south  their  way. 
Not  otherwise  than  as  the  prisoned  bird, 
We  here  dwell  careless  of  our  captive  state 
Until  light  dwindles,  and  the  year  grows  late, 
And  answering  note  to  note  no  more  is  heard ; 
Then,  our  loved  fellows  flown,  the  soul  is  stirred 
To  follow  them  where  summer  has  no  date. 


"OFT  HAVE  I  WAKENED" 

Oft  have  I  wakened  ere  the  spring  of  day 

And  from  my  window  looking  forth  have  found 

All  dim  and  strange  the  long-familiar  ground. 

But  soon  I  saw  the  mist  glide  slow  away, 

And  leave  the  hills  in  wonted  green  array, 

While  from  the  stream-sides  and  the  fields  around 

Rose  many  a  pensive  day-entreating  sound, 

And  the  deep-breasted  woodlands  seemed  to  pray. 

Will  it  be  even  so  when  first  we  wake 

Beyond  the  Night  in  which  are  merged  all  nights, — 

The  soul  sleep-heavy  and  forlorn  will  ache, 

Deeming  herself  midst  alien  sounds  and  sights? 

Then  will  the  gradual  Day  with  comfort  break 

Along  the  old  deeps  of  being,  the  old  heights  ? 


272 


THOMAS  EMMETT  MOORE 

IN  a  free  and  genial  characterization  contributed  to  the  Wash 
ington  Post,  Mr.  Willard  Holcomb,  playwright,  journalist, 

and  author,  writing  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  says : 
"Once  in  a  while  one  runs  across  a  country  editor  with  a  highly 
original  streak.  Such  a  man  is  Thomas  Emmett  Moore.  The 
fame  of  this  editor's  paper  is  due  to  his  personality.  He  talks 
with  a  drawl  that  rivals  Mark  Twain's.  Whether  this  is  an  indi 
cation  or  a  concomitant  of  humor,  may  be  a  matter  for  conjec 
ture,  but  certainly  Mr.  Moore  shows  in  his  work  plenty  of 
humor.  His  verses, —  for  he  follows,  in  the  poetic  line,  the 
distinguished  son  of  Erin  whose  name  he  bears, —  range  from 
grave  to  gay,  with  a  preponderance  in  favor  of  the  latter.  His 
writings  show  him  to  be  widely  read,  both  in  the  ancient  clas 
sics  and  in  standard  English  literature;  in  fact,  this  particular 
country  editor  is  college-bred,  after  the  fashion  of  the  hero 
of  'The  Gentleman  from  Indiana.'  " 

Thomas  Emmett  Moore,  son  of  Hon.  John  Towner  Moore 
and  Delia  L.  Moore,  was  born  at  Piketon,  Pike  County,  Ohio, 
March  1,  1861.  In  his  early  boyhood  his  parents  moved  to  Jack 
son,  Ohio,  where  Thomas  received  his  education.  Graduating 
from  the  High  School  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  immediately 
began  the  study  of  law,  and  in  1881  he  was  admitted  to  the  bar. 
After  several  years  of  legal  practice  in  partnership  with  his  father, 
he  became  the  proprietor  and  managing  editor,  successively,  of 
the  Jackson  Sun,  the  Jackson  Herald,  and  the  Wellston  Daily 
Sentinel.  On  January  30,  1881,  Mr.  Moore  was  married  to  Miss 
Mary  L.  Tripp,  in  Jackson,  where  he  continued  to  reside  until 
the  year  1891,  when  he  removed  with  his  family  to  Wellston, 
Ohio,  his  present  home. 

Mr.  Moore  is  the  author  of  but  one  published  volume,  an 
historical  romance,  My  Lord  Farquhar,  issued  in  New  York,  by 

273 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

the  Abbey  Press,  in  1902.  It  is  understood  that  he  has  in  prepa 
ration  a  collection  of  his  best  poems,  and  that  he  has  completed 
a  new  novel  entitled  "King  Saul,"  dealing  with  Oriental  life 
and  customs. 

SOUL  SONG 
(Extract) 

I  am  the  song  of  bosorn  to  bosom  and  lip  to  lip, 

And  the  wooing  breath  of  the  world's  sweet  kisses ! 

Hark !  to  the  music  of  sunlight  and  shadow  — 

To  youths  and  maidens  singing  in  the  vineyards, 

Where  the  grapes  are  clustered  and  painted  by  the  hand  of  Him 

who   loves !  — 

I  am  one  with  Shiraz  and  Engedi; 

I  am  the  spirit  of  the  rose,  and  the  song  of  the  nightingale ; 
I  am  the  lisp  of  the  wind,  and  the  sob  of  sorrow; 
Yea,  I  am  the  melody  that  outlasts  the  aeons  of  the  far  white 

stars ! 

On  the  keys  of  my  being  God  presses, 

And  joy,  and  sadness,  hope,  fear,  wrath,  defiance  and  love 

Eddy  and  sweep,  and  float,  and  rise,  and  fall,  and  rise  again, 

Desolate,  despairing,  triumphant,  immortal! 

Hark!  comes  the  Dies  Irae!    Hark  to  the  Soul's  eternal  victory! 

O  sad,  O  sweet,  O  solemn,  O  joyful,  is  the  chanson  of  the 

centuries ! 

Listen !  the  full  diapason  of  the  Song  Triumphant : 
The  panomphean  runes  of  the  limitless  oceans, 
The  twilight  whispers  that  sigh  through  the  leaves  of  the  forests, 
The  wild,  free  voices  of  the  flying  Heralds  of  Heaven, 
The  lowing  of  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills, 
And  the  hum  of  the  bees  in  the  clover! 
Oh,  bend  thine  ear  to  the  faint,  unheeded  piping  of  the  things 

that  breed 
In  microscopic  myriads ;  to  the  ripple  of  sap  gurgling  upward  in 

Spring ; 
To  the  lay  of  the  bursting  bloom! 

274 


THOMAS  EMMETT  MOORE 

LIGHT 

One  with  a  saddened  heart  to  Buddha  bowed, 

And  in  the  darkness  waited  for  a  sign ; 
While  one  who  suffered  much  to  Allah  vowed, 

And  one  knelt,  tearful,  at  the  Savior's  shrine. 

Was  there  no  light  for  these  that  lowly  prayed  — 
These  brothers,  seeking  truth,  who,  trusting,  came 

In  the  white  garments  of  pure  faith  arrayed? 

Yea ;  in  each  soul  there  dawned  a  Light  —  the  same ! 

THE  PALMER 

There  came  a  Palmer  with  his  staff,, 

Age-furrowed  brow,  and  eye  grown  dim, 

Who  pointed  onward  as  he  passed, 
And  I  rose  up  and  followed  him. 

"Whence  comest  thou,  O  Pilgrim,  gray? 
And  whither  must  this  journey  tend?" 
He  paused,  and  smiling  gently,  said : 

"From  God.    Our  journey  hath  no  end!" 


275 


HENRY  HOLCOMB  BENNETT 

HENRY  HOLCOMB  BENNETT,  son  of  John  Briscoe 
Henry  and  Eliza  (McClintock)  Bennett,  and  elder  bro 
ther  of  John  Bennett,  was  born  in  Chillicothe,  Ohio, 
December  5,  1863.  He  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of 
his  native  city,  and  in  Kenyon  College,  class  of  '86.  After  leav 
ing  college  he  devoted  himself,  for  a  period,  to  various  lines  of 
business,  chiefly  railroading,  in  the  West,  where  he  lived  five 
or  six  years.  Returning  to  Chilliocothe,  he  became  a  reporter 
for,  and,  later,  city  editor  of,  the  Scioto  Gazette.  Mr.  Bennett 
withdrew  from  journalism  in  the  autumn  of  1897,  since  which 
time  he  has  given  his  energy  chiefly  to  writing  stories  of  army 
life  and  articles  on  ornithology,  the  latter  illustrated  by  his  own 
drawings.  He  has  been  an  occasional  contributor  to  several  lead 
ing  periodicals  of  the  day,  including  Munsey's,  McClure's,  the 
Century,  and  Lippincott's ;  and  in  the  last-named  magazine 
appeared  (1898-9)  a  series  of  his  sketches  on  the  National  Guard. 

This  versatile  writer  is  a  thorough  student  of  American  his 
tory,  and  a  specialist  of  recognized  authority  on  matters  per 
taining  to  the  annals  of  Ohio,  especially  in  the  territorial  period 
and  the  period  of  early  statehood.  He  was  secretary  of  the 
committee  in  charge  of  the  "Constitutional"  Centennial  of  Ohio, 
held  in  1902,  and  chairman  of  the  committee  on  decoration,  of 
the  Ohio  Centennial  of  1903 ;  and  it  was  he  who,  in  1902,  de 
signed  the  large  bronze  tablet  erected  to  mark  the  site  of  the  old 
Capitol  at  Chillicothe,  the  first  state-house  in  America. 

As  a  landscape-painter,  Mr.  Bennett  has  studied  under 
some  of  the  best  American  artists,  and  his  work  in  water-color 
and  in  book-illustration  has  secured  for  him  a  reputation  which 
keeps  his  talents  increasingly  in  demand.  Though  he  has  not 
yet  published  any  book  of  verse,  he  is  well  known  as  a  poet, 

276 


HENRY  HOLCOMB  BENNETT 

owing  to  the  universal  popularity  of  his  patriotic  lyric,  "The 
Flag  Goes  By."  Poems  from  his  pen  have  appeared  in  the  Cen 
tury  Magazine,  the  Youth's  Companion,  and  the  New  York 
Independent. 

THE  FLAG  GOES  BY1 

Hats  off! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 

A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums, 

A  flash  of  color  beneath  the  sky: 

Hats  off! 

The  flag  is  passing  by! 

Blue  and  crimson  and  white  it  shines, 

Over  the  steel-tipped,  ordered  lines. 

Hats  off! 

The  colors  before  us  fly; 

But  more  than  the  flag  is  passing  by. 

Sea-fights  and  land-fights,  grim  and  great, 
Fought  to  make  and  to  save  the  State: 
Weary  marches  and  sinking  ships ; 
Cheers  of  victory  on  dying  lips; 

Days  of  plenty  and  years  of  peace; 
March  of  a  strong  land's  swift  increase ; 
Equal  justice,  right  and  law; 
Stately  honor  and  reverend  awe; 

Sign  of  a  nation,  great  and  strong 

To  ward  her  people  from  foreign  wrong: 

Pride  and  glory  and  honor, —  all 

Live  in  the  colors  to  stand  or  fall. 


1  From  the  Youth's  Companion. 

277 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Hats  off! 

Along  the  street  there  comes 

A  blare  of  bugles,  a  ruffle  of  drums; 

And  loyal  hearts  are  beating  high : 

Hats  off! 

The  flag  is  passing  by! 


THE  REDBIRD'S  MATINS1 

I  cling 

And  swing, 

High  in  the  budding  maple  trees ; 

And  out  on  the  perfumed  air  I  fling 

A  message  of  song  to  the  herald  breeze, 

To  be  carried  down  to  the  golden  bees 

Where  they  gossip  over  their  garnering. 

Clear,  long, 

And   strong 

I  make  my  song, 

That  all  the  wakening  world  may  hear 

The  tidings  sweet  that  I  repeat, — 

This  is  the  joy-time  of  the  year! 

Be  glad!    Be  glad!  and  have  no  fear, — 

This  is  the  joy-time  of  the  year! 

The  merry  note 

From  out  my  throat 

Is  borne  afar  on  wings  of  air, 

And  through  the  woodland  ways  remote 

The  quivering  echoes  rise  and  float; 

And  every  one  the  tidings  bear, — 

Be  glad!   Be  glad!    The  spring  is  here! 

This  is  the  joy-time  of  the  year. 


1  From  St.  Nicholas. 

278 


HENRY  HOLCOMB  BENNETT 

Cheer  up!     Cheer  up! 

The  blossomed  cup 

Is  filled  for  all  the  bees  to  sup. 

The  waters  run 

Beneath  the  sun 

Like  strands  of  silver  through  the  grass; 

And  all  the  bees 

Among  the  trees 

Make  love  to  every  flower  they  pass. 

Oh,  hear!    Oh,  hear! 

How    loud   and    clear 

I  sing  to  the  listening  world  below; 

How  joyously  comes  my  word  of  cheer, — 

This  is  the  joy-time  of  the  year, 

When  blossoming  wind-flowers  bend  and  blow, 

When  the  sun  shines  warm  and  waters  flow: 

Be  glad!    Be  glad!    The  spring  is  here; 

This  is  the  joy-time  of  the  year! 


279 


JOHN  BENNETT 

JOHN  BENNETT,  son  of  John  Briscoe  Henry,  and  Eliza 
(McClintock)  Bennett,  and  younger  brother  of  Henry  Hoi- 
comb  Bennett,  was  born  in  Chillicothe,  Ohio,  May  17,  1865. 
His  parents,  both  of  whom  were  Virginians,  descended  from 
Scotch,  Scotch-Irish,  Dutch,  English,  and  French  ancestors;, 
transmitted  to  their  sons  traits  and  tendencies  of  imagination, 
sentiment,  and  adventure,  which  afforded  a  potential  equipment 
for  romantic  authorship  and  for  pictorial  art.  "From  my  earli 
est  recollection,"  writes  Mr.  Bennett,  "I  have  been  a  teller  of 
stories,  and  I  was  a  reciter  of  gigantic  romances  of  travel  to 
other  children  on  the  neighboring  horse-blocks,  in  the  long  sum 
mer  evenings  of  this  beautiful  Scioto  Valley.  My  boyhood  was 
spent  in  roaming  over  the  hills  of  Ross  County,  trudging  through 
their  enchanted  woods,  and  traversing  the  river  with  a  comrade." 
John's  father  cultivated  in  him  an  observant  love  of  natural 
beauty,  and  of  small  things  and  creatures,  and  fostered  in  him 
a  strong  inherited  gift  for  drawing.  Among  books,  the  boy's 
"prime  favorites"  were  "the  British  dramatists,  the  English  clas 
sics,  and  the  poetry  of  Burns." 

Mr.  Bennett  received  his  education  in  the  public  schools  of 
Chillicothe.  Though  denied  the  advantages  of  higher  collegiate 
training,  he  early  won  distinction  by  his  scholarly  attainments, 
having  been  from  childhood  a  precocious  student  and  an  omnivo 
rous  reader  of  biography,  fiction,  and  English  history.  In  1883 
he  entered  the  Art  Students'  League,  in  Cincinnati,  where  he 
began  those  artistic  pursuits  which  soon  gained  for  him  public 
recognition,  and  which,  later  in  life,  he  continued  in  the  Art 
Students'  League  of  New  York.  For  a  period  .of  about  fourteen 
years  he  was  employed,  by  turns,  as  newspaper-correspondent, 
as  reporter  for  and  editor  of  the  Chillicothe  Daily  News,  as 
caricaturist,  and  as  paragrapher,  publishing  miscellaneous  verse 

280 


JOHN  BENNETT 

and  prose  in  the  Cincinnati  Commercial-Gazette,  in  St.  Nicholas, 
and  elsewhere.  Mr.  Bennett's  first  book,  Master  Skylark,  issued 
in  1897,  by  The  Century  Company,  has  been  translated  into  both 
Dutch  and  German.  This  delightful  story  of  the  Elizabethan 
stage  was  followed,  in  1900,  by  Barnaby  Lee,  an  American  colo 
nial  romance,  and  in  1906,  by  The  Treasure  of  Peyre  Gaillard,  a 
romance  of  the  Santee  Swamps. 

In  1898,  on  account  of  ill  health,  Mr.  Bennett  removed  to 
Charleston,  South  Carolina,  where  he  has  since  had  his  residence, 
and  where,  in  1902,  he  was  married  to  Miss  Susan  Adger 
Smythe.  Of  late  years  he  has  devoted  himself  mainly  to  author 
ship.  As  an  adjunct  to  his  literary  labors  in  the  South,  how 
ever,  he  makes  an  avocation  of  lecturing,  on  such  subjects  as: 
"Plantation  Folk  Music;"  "Primitive  African  Communal  Bal 
ladry  in  America;"  and  "The  Growth  of  Music,  Illustrated  by 
Southern  Negro  Songs." 

THE  MERRY  SPRINGTIME 

(From  "Master  Skylark") 

Hey,  laddie,  hark  to  the  merry,  merry  lark! 

How  high  he  singeth  clear: 
"Oh,  a  morn  in  spring  is  the  sweetest  thing 

That  cometh  in  all  the  year! 
Oh,  a  morn  in  spring  is  the  sweetest  thing 
That  cometh  in  all  the  year!" 

Ring,  ting!  it  is  the  merry  springtime; 

How  full  of  heart  a  body  feels ! 
Sing  hey,  trolly-lolly !  oh,  to  live  is  to  be  jolly, 

When  springtime  cometh  with  the  summer  at  her  heels ! 

God  save  us  all,  my  jolly  gentlemen, 

We'll  merry  be  to-day; 
For  the  cuckoo  sings  till  the  greenwood  rings, 

And  it  is  the  month  of  May! 
For  the  cuckoo  sings  till  the  greenwood  rings, 

And  it  is  the  month  of  May! 

281 


POETS  OF  OHIO 
SONG  OF  THE  HUNT 

(From  "Master  Skylark") 

The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up, 
Sing  merily  we,  the  hunt  is  up! 
The  wild  birds  sing, 
The  dun  deer  fling, 
The  forest  aisles  with  music  ring! 
Tantara,  tantara,  tantara! 

Then  ride  along,  ride  along, 
Stout  and  strong! 

Farewell  to  grief  and  care; 
With  a  rollicking  cheer 
For  the  high  dun  deer 

And  a  life  in  the  open  air! 
Tantara,  the  hunt  is  up,  lads; 

Tantara,  the  bugles  bray! 
Tantara,  tantara,  tantara, 
Hio,  hark  away! 

SONG  OF  THE  DUTCH  CANNONEERS 

Boom,  pouf,  boom!    Awake!     I  hear  the  captain  calling; 

The  culverins  are  speaking;  the  battle  has  begun; 
A  soldier's  death  and  glory  through  the  stricken  field  are  seeking 
For  the  boldest  and  the  bravest.    Up  to  meet  them,  every  one ! 
The  man  who  holds  his  life  too  good 

To  risk  at  glory's  call 
Deserves  to  take  his  daily  food 
Behind  a  prison-wall! 

But  where,  through  choke  and  sulphur-smoke,  the  hungry  cannon 

bellow, 
The  hero's  cry  rings  through  the  sky!     Ho,  comrades,  every 

one! 

'Tis  courage  makes  the  soldier,  slinking  cowardice  the  fellow ; 
And  the  brave  wear  glory's  garlands  at  the  setting  of  the  sun ! 

282 


JOHN  BENNETT 

Boom,  pouf,  boom !    Awake !    It  is  the  cannon's  bellow. 

Boom,  boom,  boom!    To  arms!    The  battle  has  begun. 
If  courage  makes  the  soldier,  and  cowardice  the  fellow, 

We  will  all  wear  glory's  garlands  at  the  setting  of  the  sun ! 

TO  THE  ROBIN  THAT  SINGS  AT  MY  WINDOW 

Robin,  a-bob  in  the  top  of  the  sycamore, 
Swinging  and  singing  and  flinging  your  song 

Out  on  the  April  breeze 

Over  the  maple  trees, 
Like  a  gay  cavalier  lilting  along 
Over  the  hills  to  the  valleys  of  Arcady, 
Through  dewy  dells  where  the  spring  blossoms  blow, 

Out  of  gray  shadow-lands 

Into  May  meadow-lands 

Starry  with  wind-flowers  whiter  than  snow.     .     .     . 
Oh,  let  me  ride  with  you,  Robin,  to  Arcady, 
A-spur  through  the  cool  of  the  dew  and  the  dawn ! 

Oh,  let  me  sing  with  you, 

Make  the  road  ring  with  you, 
Gaily  and  gallantly  galloping  on! 

Sing,  Robin,  sing  a  wild  ballad  of  Arcady, 
Fresh  as  the  wind  and  the  dew  of  the  dawn! 

Sing  as  I  ride  with  you, 

Sing  side  by  side  with  you, 
While  we  go  galloping,  galloping  on! 
Sing  of  the  deeds  that  were  done  while  the  world  was  young ; 
Sing  of  brave  stories  that  never  were  told; 

Sing  of  the  olden  time; 

Sing  of  the  golden  time ; 
Sing  of  the  glory  that  never  grows  old. 
Sing  the  grand  hymn  in  the  throat  of  the  summer  hills ; 
Sing  the  wind's  song  and  the  rush  of  the  rain ; 

Sing  of  the  mystery 

Older  than  history 
Sung  by  the  seed  in  the  growth  of  the  grain. 

283 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Sing  me  the  song  of  the  sun  and  the  summer-time ; 
Sing  me  the  song  that  the  bumblebee  drones 

As  he  goes  blundering 

Home  from  his  plundering 
Deep  down  in  orchards  that  nobody  owns. 
Flute-throated  herald  of  June  and  of  hollyhocks, 
Ripple-tongued  singer  of  roses  and  rain, 

Earliest,  merriest, 

Bravest  and  veriest 

Promise  of  summer  and  sunshine  again : 
Come,  let  me  ride  with  you,  Robin,  to  Arcady, 
Over  the  hills  in  the  dawn  of  the  day, 

Out  of  the  shadow-lands 

Into  the  meadow-lands 
Where  it  is  summer  forever  and  aye ! 

THE  HILLS  OF  ROSS 

The  bold  old  sandstone  hills  of  Ross 

Swing  up  and  down  the  land 

Like  burly  giants  roystering 

Together,  hand-in-hand ; 

And  over  hill  and  over  dale 

The  clouds  go  rolling  free 

Like  great  gold-laden  galleons 

Across  a  summer  sea; 

And  high  along  the  windy  sky 

The  buzzards  wheel  and  wing; 

About,  about,  now  in,  now  out, 

They  reel  and  sweep  and  swing 

Until  one's  head  goes  round  and  round 

With  every  dizzy  ring. 

Across  the  knurly  hills  of  Ross 
'Bold  Summer  blew  his  horn ; 
It  stirred  a  thousand  dreaming  dales 
And  waked  the  sleeping  corn; 

284 


JOHN  BENNETT 

'So  high,  so  far,  so  clear  it  rang 

Through  all  the  drowsy  world, 

The  wild-flower  host  wide  open  sprang, 

The  blind  brown  ferns  uncurled. 

It  roused  a  myriad  untaught  notes 

In  hedge  and  bush  and  tree; 

It  set  the  wild-wood  echoing 

With  bubble-throated  glee; 

And  sent  a  sudden,  laughing  thrill 

All  through  the  heart  of  me. 

Along  the  brawny  hills  of  Ross 

The  west  wind  whirls  the  rain, 

Across  the  murky  chimney-pots, 

Adown  the  dusty  pane; 

And,  oh,  that  wind  is  calling  me 

From  out  the  dusty  town, 

'Out  to  the  misty  meadow-land, 

Out  to  the  dewy  down, 

Out  to  the  wind-blown  hills  of  Ross, 

Into  the  summer  shower, 

To  be  a  fellow  to  the  field, 

A  brother  to  the  flower, 

And  part  of  the  midsummer  day, 

If  only  for  an  hour. 

OBSTINACY 
(From  "Barnaby  Lee") 

There  dwelt  a  man  in  Amsterdam,  so  obstinate,  they  say, 
That  the  ocean  could  not  move  him,  though  it  washed  the  dikes 

away; 

So  when  the  world  was  ended  and  he  would  not  move  his  chair, 
They  had  to  roll  the  world  away  and  leave  him  sitting  there. 


285 


FRANCES  NEWTON  SYMMES 

FRANCES  NEWTON  SYMMES,  daughter  of  John  H. 
and  Hallie  (Smith)  Newton,  was  born  April  16,  1865,  at 
"Rosebank,"  an  old  colonial  homestead  in  St.  Louis,  Mis 
souri.  Mr.  Newton  died  in  1869,  and  five  years  later  his  widow 
was  married  to  Mr.  A.  L.  Symmes,  who,  in  1874,  brought  his 
wife,  with  the  nine-year-old  child,  to  his  home  in  Clifton,  Cin 
cinnati.  Frances,  in  her  early  womanhood,  adopted  the  surname 
of  her  stepfather.  At  the  time  of  her  coming  to  the  Queen  City, 
Miss  Symmes  "had  not  seen  the  inside  of  a  school,  nor  learned 
a  compulsory  lesson."  She  received  her  first  tuition  as  a  pupil 
in  the  Sacred  Heart  Convent,  on  Walnut  Hills,  and  later  she 
became  a  student  in  the  Bartholomew  English  and  Classical 
School,  of  which  institution  she  is  a  graduate.  Her  higher 
academic  education  was  received  at  Smith  College,  Northampton, 
Mass.,  where  she  pursued  her  studies  with  the  special  object  of 
fitting  herself  for  the  teacher's  profession.  After  her  return 
from  Northampton,  Miss  Symmes  soon  attracted  attention  by 
her  ability  and  scholarship,  as  one  of  the  instructors  in  Madam 
Fredin's  private  school,  Walnut  Hills,  with  which  academy  she 
was  connected  until  her  change  of  residence  to  Chicago,  111., 
where  she  entered  upon  a  wider  field  of  usefulness  as  teacher 
of  English  in  the  Kenwood  Institute.  In  the  autumn  of  1906, 
she  removed  to  Providence,  Rhode  Island,  where  she  still  resides, 
devoting  her  talents  to  educational  work  in  Miss  Wheeler's 
School,  a  leading  female  seminary  of  that  city. 

The  only  book  thus  far  published,  from  the  pen  of  Miss 
Symmes,  is  a  small  collection  of  poems  entitled  "Brier  Bloom," 
issued  in  Cincinnati  in  1893. 


286 


FRANCES  NEWTON  SYMMES 

HEART  STIRRINGS 

Like  little  spring  birds  in  the  hedges, 

Stir  the  songs  in  my  heart. 
In  a  tangle  of  follies  and  fancies, 
In  a  network  of  dreams  and  romances; 
As  the  fluttering  thrush  in  the  snow  of  the  briers, 
Or  the  robin  a-swing  in  the  peach-blossom  fires, 
Stir  the  songs  in  my  heart. 

Like  the  timid  spring-flowers  in  the  meadow, 

Stir  the  songs  in  my  heart. 
'Neath  the  mosses  of  memory  sleeping, 
'Twixt  the  leaves  of  remembrance  peeping; 
As  through  the  soft  sod  the  pale  wind-flower  creeps, 
Or  the  frightened  arbutus  through  brown  grasses  peeps, 
Stir  the  songs  in  my  heart. 

O  hasten,  brave  Spring,  o'er  the  mountains ! 

Free  the  songs  in  my  heart! 
Call  the  birds  from  the  blossoming  hedges ; 
Rouse  the  flowers  in  the  shadowy  ledges. 
As  the  larks  in  the  rapture  of  azure  June  skies, 
As  the  blooms  in  the  dance  with  the  bright  butterflies, 
Sing,  O  Songs,  in  my  heart! 

REPRESSION 

O  bursting  bud  and  leafing  tree! 

O  rushing  stream,  aflow  with  cool,  spring  rain! 
Ye  can  not  know  the  vague  unrest 

That  makes  mere  living,  these  spring  days,  a  pain ! 
The  green  peeps  through  the  sere,  dead  leaves, 

The  tender  seed  throws  off  its  coverings  brown, 
And  only  eager  dreams  and  hopes 

Their  restless  springtime  longings  must  keep  down. 
The  sunshine,  with  its  thrilling  touch, 

Awakens  quick  ambitions  in  the  trees, 

287 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

And  tender  stirrings  fill  the  nest, 

And  ghosts  of  fragrance  coquette  in  the  breeze; 
And  yet,  in  all  this  fresh,  new  life, 

Our  souls  are  still  imprisoned,  and  our  eyes 
In  vain  for  some  dear  secret  look, 

In  smiling  fields  and  streams  and  skies. 

LISTENING 

I  sit  on  the  bare,  brown  rocks, 

And  listen,  listen. 

The  purring  waves  tease  the  sedges  gray, 
The  sea-weeds  shine  in  the  chilly  spray, 
And  a  white  sail  skims  'gainst  that  sunset  glow, 
Like  the  wing  of  an  angel  flying  low. 
All  the  air  is  full  of  a  spell  intense, 
A-thrill  with  mysterious,  subtle  sense! 
O  waves !    O  sky !   Let  a  whispered  thought 
From  your  throbbing  heart  to  my  heart  be  brought ! 

I  lean  on  the  lichened  wall, 

And  listen,  listen. 

There's  a  swallow  there,  in  that  far,  far  blue, 
And  the  redbud's  burning  the  forest  through; 
And  the  dogwood  bloom,  on  that  sunny  knoll, 
Is  as  cool  and  white  as  a  maiden's  soul. 
All  the  air  is  full  of  a  strange,  sweet  sense 
Of  a  secret  hid,  of  a  hope  intense! 
O  rapturous  bird,  strike  some  subtle  key 
That  will  teach  my  soul  Spring's  harmony ! 

FATE 

O  pale  Anemone !  what  treacherous  breath 

Beguiled  thy  soul  from  out  the  heaven  of  flowers, 

And  dropped  thee  here,  while  still  the  wintry  death 
Of  last  year's  bloom  is  mourned  ?    No  April  showers 

288 


FRANCES  NEWTON  SYMMES 

Have  come,  as  yet,  to  wake,  with  gentle  tap, 

The  fragile  bloodroot  or  the  violet  brave ; 
No  sun  has  stirred  the  fern-fronds  in  their  nap, 

Or  tempted  e'en  the  snowdrop  from  its  grave ; 
But  thou,  White  Spirit,  tenderer  than  these, 

Above  the  snow-bleached  grass  and  leaves  dost  rise 
With  brave  child-face.    Dost  wait  for  some  kind  breeze 

To  waft  thee  back  again  to  warmer  skies? 
"Alas !   I  know  not,"  said  the  bloom.     "My  fate 
Called  me  thus  early  and  I  could  not  wait." 

REVIVAL 

A  sudden  robin  note  through  whirling  flakes ; 

Half  snow,  half  rain,  for  days  —  then  sunshine  breaks; 

'Mong  ragged  leaves  the  vigorous  lily-stalks; 

A  fringe  of  snowdrops  down  the  garden-walks ; 

The  bloodroots'  fingers  reaching  towards  the  sun; 

Perchance  courageous  wind-flowers,  one  by  one ; 

A  robin  in  the  maple  plumes  his  wing, 

Then  swells  his  throat  with  gladness, —  it  is  Spring ! 

FOREBODINGS 

From  azure  into  ashes  turns  the  sky, 

The  ragged  clouds  sweep  fast  behind  the  hill ; 

The  river  blackens,  tattered  blooms  blow  by ; 
The  forest  stirs  expectant  —  then  all's  still, 

Save  startled  birds  a-cry  from  nest  to  nest, 

And  thunderous  warnings  in  the  lurid  west. 

AFTERWARDS 

The  wrinkled  river  smoothes  its  shadowed  face; 

The  young  leaves  shake  their  green  folds  to  the  sun ; 
Faint  blue  creeps  up  behind  the  hills  apace; 

A  waste  of  petals  strews  the  orchard  slopes; 
Then  pallid  green  turns  gold;  on  glistening  stems, 
The  burdened  flower-cups  brim  with  twinkling  gems. 

289 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

TWILIGHT 

The  cold  sky-fires  behind  the  trees'  black  bars ; 

The  dull  gray  ribbon  of  the  frozen  stream; 
The  hush  of  snow ;  two  white,  uncertain  stars ; 

The  fading  line  of  far-off,  lonely  fields; 
A  snowy  bough  beneath  its  load  breaks  shrill; 
Mysterious  twilight  comes,  and  all  is  still. 


DAWN 

The  pallid  East  aflush  with  doubtful  rose; 

The  restless  stream  astir  in  dawn-thrilled  wood ; 
The  whirr  of  birds,  the  white  star's  dimming  glows ; 

The  vague,  wide  fields,  half  lost  in  folds  of  mist; 
A  clear- voiced  thrush  chants  on  a  dew-wet  spray; 
A  light  wind  whispers  in  the  boughs, — 'tis  day! 


290 


WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE 

WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE,  son  of  William  Eu 
gene  and  Frances  Silva  (d'Arusmont)  Guthrie,  and 
grandson  of  the  famous  Frances  Wright,  was  born  in 
Dundee,  Scotland,  March  4,  1868.  At  an  early  age  he  came 
with  his  widowed  mother  to  the  United  States.  In  1889  he  grad 
uated  from  the  University  of  the  South,  Sewanee,  Tenn.,  and 
in  1889-90  he  was  assistant  professor  of  modern  languages  in 
that  institution.  He  was  professor  of  modern  languages  at 
Kenyon  College,  Ohio,  in  1892-3,  at  the  close  of  which  period, 
having  been  ordained  to  the  Protestant  Episcopal  ministry,  he 
became  "missionary  in  charge,"  of  Christ's  Church,  at  Kennedy 
Heights,  Hamilton  County,  Ohio,  where  he  officiated  until  1894, 
when  he  entered  upon  a  wider  field  of  professional  service  in  the 
Church  of  the  Advent,  Cincinnati  (1894-96).  Mr.  Guthrie 
was  married,  January  4,  1883,  in  Sewanee,  Tenn.,  to  Miss 
Anna  Morton  Stuart.  From  1898  to  1900  he  was  lecturer  on 
comparative  literature  at  the  University  of  Cincinnati,  and  from 
1900  to  1903,  director  of  the  Cincinnati  Conference  of  Arts  and 
Literature.  He  also  held,  from  1902  to  1909,  the  position  of 
professorial  lecturer  on  general  literature  at  the  University  of 
Chicago.  In  1899  he  was  called  to  the  rectorship  of  the  Church 
of  the  Resurrection,  Fern  Bank,  Ohio,  where  he  resided  until 
1903,  when,  on  account  of  his  wife's  failing  health,  he  removed 
to  Alameda,  Cal.,  and  there  was  rector  of  Christ's  Church  until 
1908.  Since  1902  he  has  been  professor  of  general  literature, 
and  director  of  the  University  Extension  Department  (Summer 
Session),  in  the  University  of  the  South,  at  Sewanee,  Tenn., 
his  present  place  of  abode. 

During  the  ten  years  of  his  residence  in  or  near  Cincinnati, 
Mr.  Guthrie  made  literature  an  avocation,  publishing  within  that 
period  a  volume  of  critical  essays,  Modern  Poet  Prophets,  and 

291 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

four  unique  and  strikingly  original  books  of  verse:  To  Kindle 
the  Yule  Log  (1899)  ;  Songs  of  American  Destiny,  or  Vision 
of  New  Hellas  (1900);  The  Old  Hemlock  —  Symbolic  Odes 
(1901)  ;  and  The  Christ  of  the  Ages,  in  Words  of  Holy 
Writ  (1903). 

Endowed  by  nature  with  a  fervid  imagination  and  with 
unusual  critical  acumen,  and  equipped  by  extensive  study  and 
reading,  with  a  familiar  knowledge  of  the  principal  European 
languages,  ancient  and  modern,  Mr.  Guthrie  is  a  brilliant  and 
incisive  lecturer  on  various  aspects  of  literature,  especially  on 
poetry,  fiction,  and  the  drama.  The  distinctive  characteristics  of 
his  verse,  which,  like  his  spirited,  graphic,  and  stimulating  prose, 
is  filled  with  surprises  of  thought  and  felicities  of  diction,  are  well 
suggested  by  an  Ohio  critic,  who  writes  of  the  author  of  Songs 
of  American  Destiny  that  "he  sings  a  subtle  Orphic  strain,  in 
forms  of  poetic  art  which  follow  the  cult  of  Leopardi  and  George 
Meredith." 

THE  LION 

An  Incident  at  the  Zoological  Gardens 

There,  on  the  floor  of  thy  cage 

Thou  liest,  O  Lion, 

Stretched  out,  indifferent! 

Vast  head,  with  weight  of  portentous  mane  — 

A  tangle  as  of  autumn  forests 

Where  the  horror  of  jaws 

Lurks  in  ambush; 

Compact  muscular  legs, 

Armed  with  death, 

In  which  the  lightning  of  the  fatal  leap, 

The  crack,  the  crash  of  the  fall, 

The  rending  of  flesh  yet  alive, 

Slumber  unquietly; 

Tail   with   suppressed   lash 

Involuntarily  vibrant; 

Through  eyes  half -shut 

292 


WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE 

With  cunning  show  of  drowsiness, 

The  yellow  flash,  keen, 

Like  broken  glitter  in  the  moon-glare 

Of  little  pools  of  steaming  blood ; 

All,  but  betrays 

Subtly  a  soul  of  terror. 

What  outrage  to  have  caged  thee! 

Yet,  in  thy  bars  take  comfort. 

Proffers  of  freedom  were  insult  — 

Scorn  of  the  harmless,  the  impotent: 

Men  dread  thee! 

But  thou  —  carest  not  if  they  quake, 

Requirest  no  flattery  of  fears, 

Sure  of  thy  formidable  strength, 

Indifferent, 

Grand. 

Ah,  wherefore  do  we  stop 

In  front  of  thy  cage 

Bound  by  an  evil  spell? 

Why  this  shudder  at  times, 

Not  of  dread  —  this  sense 

Of  oppression,  difficult  breath, 

Unaccountable?     Whence  this  ache 

Of  self-pity  intense  as  we  look 

At  Thee,  fierce  brute, 

Caged  fiend  of  the  wilderness, 

At  Thee:  — 

Terrible !    magnificent ! 

That  leap,  shaking  the  iron  bars 

As  reeds  once  by  shrunk  streams 

Where  thy  tongue  of  fire 

Lapped  the  cool: 

The  quick  snakes  of  thy  mane 

Erect,  rigid, 

Quivering  with  wild  might, 

293 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

At  the  eruption  of  a  roar, — 

Like  fire  volcanic 

From  bottomless  deeps  of  fury 

Inflaming  the  sky, 

Charring  the  fruitful  earth. 

What   is   it 

Captive  monster, 

Late  so  majestic,  composed, 

Scornfully  indolent? 

A  cub  —  set  loose 

For  sport  of  children  — 

A  cub  astonished  stares 

In  front  of  thy  cage, 

By  neat-trimmed  shrubbery  — 

Free? 

Who  shall  utter,  O  Lion, 

Thy  stupor,  agony,  rage? 

One  of  thy  kind,  a  cub,  free? 

What!     The  wilderness  nigh? 

This  fetid  cage  of  shame  —  hallucination  ? 

Dens  full  of  half-tame  skulking  beasts, 

Howls,  whines,  snarls  of  feeding  time  — 

An  obsession? 

The  day's  peering  merrymakers, 

(Cowards  who  inspect  with  prudent  insolence,)  - 

And  the  prowl  that  ends  where  it  began 

In  the  close  stench  of  the  walled  night  — 

A  hideous  obstinate  nightmare? 

Ah,  'tis  the  Wilderness  has  roused  her  to  battle  — 

Has  conquered  civilization, 

At  a  bound  come  hither 

To  rescue  her  caged  King? 

Iron  bars  only  between  Him  and  — 

Not  freedom  — 

But  Her? 


294 


WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE 

The  hot  day's  sleep,  the  night's  fierce  hunt, 

The  fight  to  the  death  with  rivals 

For  the  lioness,  sleek,  awaiting  the  issue 

With  treacherous  fawn,  and  leers 

Of  savage  pleasure? 

Only  these  bars  between  Him,  and  — 

Not  freedom  — 

But  life?  — Life? 


Magnificent  captive, 

Disdainer  of  liberty, 

Do  I  not  understand  thee? 

Am  not  I,  too,  caged? 

Laws,    customs,   courtesies,   proprieties ! 

I   too  —  remember. 

Not  liberty,  O  not  liberty  now ! 

Why  break  through  bars? 

Prolonged  despair  hath  cowed  us  both, 

And  the  tyranny  of  use. 

What?    Wreck  our  cage? 

Where  then  would  our  Wilderness  be? 

The  torrid  sun, 

The  fever? 

Hunger  for  palpitant  flesh, 

Thirst  for  hot  blood? 

The  icy  night, 

The  blinding  moon  in  the  clear, 

The  shadows  black  of  rock  and  tree? 

The  prey  terrified, 

The  joy  of  his  agony? 

The  antagonist's  prowl,  roar,  ramp? 

The  ache,  the  bliss  of  omnipotent  fierce  life? 

Only  a  minute  the  spell  hath  lasted  — 
Best,  O  Lion,  we  both  were  patient, 


295 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Spiritless,  sleepy  —  sane ! 

May  be,  may  be  — 

(The  thought  of  it  starts 

A  shudder  like  death's 

Clotting  the  heart's  blood) 

May  be,  may  be —  (who  knows?) 

Only  the  semblance  is  left  us 

Of  fire  —  as  of  sunsets 

That  flare  in  the  heavens, 

But  singe  not  a  stubble-straw 

Of   the   western   hills; 

May  be  —  were  the  Wilderness  here  indeed, 

Thou,  O  Lion,  and  I  — 

Even  Thou,  and  I 

Were  wanting. 

EVOCATION 

What  weird  dream  have  I  dream'd 
hard  to  recall? 

Ay!  so  meseem'd 

I  stood  in  some  vast  hall 
lonely  and  sad,  a  disillusioned  youth 
loathing  the  lie  —  fearing  the  face  of  truth. 

•All  the  life  since,  became 
unreal;  yes  She 
a  myth,  a  name. 
I  yearn'd  to  bow  the  knee, 
reverent  to  some  strange  Deity,  my  own 
Creature-of-cloud,  Witch-of-my-dreams  unknown. 

There  mov'd  unheard,  but  felt, 
a  shining  Thing 
whose  either  wing 
cover'd  me  as  I  knelt:  — 
"Vision  of  perfect  being,  holy,  sweet, 
let  me  remain  —  perish,  but  kiss  thy  feet!" 

296 


WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE 

AN  OLD  NEST 

Frail  boughs  of  precious  sprays, 
that  twine  and  press  sweet  blossoms  cheek  to  cheek, 
why,  when  no  wayward  breath  essays 
to  tangle  itself  in  your  bright  maze, 
be  ye  tremulous?     Speak,  bright  branches,  speak. 

"A  nest  lies  hidden  here  — 
an  old  year's  nest  through  winter  safely  kept; 
and  happy  boughs  are  we,  for  we're 
of  all  the  bloomy  boughs  most  near 
to  where  innocent  birds  last  summer  slept! 

Two  wayfarers  are  flown 
back  to  the  nest  of  merry  months  gone-by; 
and  nestle  wing  to  wing,  unknown 
of  all  the  world  save  us  alone, 
as  they  twitter  in  sleep,  and  dream  they  fly." 


A  RESPITE 

Laughing  I  lay  on  a  Summer's  day,. 

bedded  in  blossoming  grass; 
and  little,  little  did  I  think  of  Her! 

Love  is  not  all  of  life  —  alas ! 

'Would  that  it  were, 

'Would  that  it  were. 

Oh !   that  we  could  be  but  understood ; 

bees  must  their  honey  amass 
when  skies  are  blue  and  grasses  lightly  stir. 

Love  is  not  all  of  life  —  alas  ! 

'Would  that  it  were, 

'Would  that  it  were. 


297 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Selfish  the  soul  that  from  love-dreams  stole, 

watching  the  gay  breeze  pass 
o'er  ferns  and  flowers,  but  Oh !  all  things  aver 

Love  is  not  all  of  life  —  alas  ! 

'Would  that  it  were, 

'Would  that  it  were. 


IN  VAIN 

A  passer-by,  a  passer-by, 

only  a  passer-by ! 

And  I  hoped  to  have  thee  always  nigh, 
to  hear  thee  bid  me  live  or  die 
for  thee,   for  thee  —  but  what  was  I  ? 
Only  a  passer-by. 

An  idle  dream,  an  idle  dream, 

only  an  idle  dream ! 
For  we  meet  to  part,  and  when  we  seem 
just  near  enough  to  kiss,  the  stream 
will  sweep  us  on,  from  dream  to  dream  — 

Only  an  idle  dream ! 

O  bitterness  of  bitterness, 

bitterest  bitterness ! 

That  the  heart  should  spend  its  tenderness, 
and  bless  a  heart  that  cannot  bless, 
and  waste  away  yet  love  no  less  — 

Bitterest  bitterness ! 


298 


WILLIAM  NORMAN  GUTHRIE 

HIGHER  MATHEMATICS 

Two  and  two  make  five,  say  I ! 

The  truth  is  as  plain  as  day.     For  why? 

The  whole  is  more  than  the  sum  I  take 

Of  the  parts; 
Thoughts,  feelings,  passions,  do  not  make 

Human   hearts  ; 
Sums  are  not  wholes 
With  flowers  and  souls ! 
So  two  and  two  make  five,  say  I ! 

WHENCE?    WHITHER? 

Drift! 
Who   would    care   to   lift 

The  cast-off  rose 
From  the  stream's  traitorous  breast? 

No  one  knows 

Whose  it  was  —  where  it  bloomed ! 
Only  doomed  —  doomed  —  doomed ! 
It  is  best  — 
Drift! 


299 


ALICE  ARCHER  SEW  ALL  JAMES 

A  ICE  ARCHER  SEWALL  JAMES,  daughter  of  Rev. 
erend  Frank  Sewall,  the  eminent  Swedenborgian  author 
and  divine,  and  of  Thedia  Redelia  (Gilchrist)  Sewall, 
was  born  in  1870,  at  Glendale,  Ohio,  where  her  father  had  his 
first  charge  as  minister  of  the  New  Church.  In  the  year  of  her 
birth  the  family  removed  to  Urbana,  Ohio,  where,  for  the  next 
sixteen  years,  her  father  officiated  as  a  clergyman,  and  as  Presi 
dent  of  Urbana  University  (a  New  Church  institution),  and 
where  the  subject  of  this  sketch  received  her  early  education. 

Manifesting  in  childhood  a  decided  predilection  for  poetry 
and  art,  Alice  was  given  every  advantage  of  private  instruction, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  and  her  rapidly  developing  talent  soon 
commanded  for  her  a  national  reputation.  "In  my  father's 
home,"  writes  Mrs.  James,  "there  was  always  music  and  a  love 
of  beautiful  things,  made  subservient  to  the  faithful  and  labor 
ious  life  of  a  pastor  and  his  family.  ...  I  made  my  first  intimate 
acquaintance  with  the  Greek  casts,  at  sixteen,  in  the  Art  School 
of  Glasgow,  Scotland,  where  we  lived  for  two  years.  The  fol 
lowing  year  was  spent  on  the  Continent,  chiefly  in  Italy,  where, 
under  'my  father's  instruction,  I  was  introduced  to  Dante  and  the 
literature  of  the  Renaissance,  and  to  the  galleries  of  Rome  and 
Florence.  From  1889  to  1899  my  home  was  in  Washington, 
D.  C.,  where  I  became  acquainted  with  the  painter,  Howard 
Helmick,  to  whose  criticism  and  judgment,  in  all  branches  of 
literature,  I  owe  more  than  I  can  say." 

In  1899  Miss  Sewall  was  married  to  John  H.  James,  a 
prominent  attorney  of  Urbana,  Ohio,  in  which  city  she  now 
resides. 

As  an  artist  Mrs.  James  is  highly  esteemed,  her  work  hav 
ing  been  chosen  for  exhibition  in  the  collections  of  the  New 
York  Architectural  League,  the  Philadelphia  Academy  of  Art, 

300 


ALICE  ARCHER  SEW  ALL  JAMES 

the  Chicago  World's  Fair,  the  Expositions  of  Atlanta  and  Nash 
ville,  and  at  the  Salon,  Paris ;  and  she  has  contributed  illustrative 
designs  to  the  Century  Magazine,  to  Harper's  Monthly,  and  to 
the  Cosmopolitan.  Not  less  distinguished  as  a  poet  than  as  a 
painter,  Mrs.  James  has  produced  many  exquisite  lyrics,  which 
are  invariably  characterized  by  originality,  vigor,  and  freshness 
of  conception,  purity  and  elevation  of  sentiment,  delicacy  of 
fancy,  and  grace  of  expression,  as  well  as  by  rhythmic  and 
•melodious  charm.  She  is  the  author  of  two  volumes  of  verse, 
An  Ode  to  Girlhood,  and  Other  Poems  (1899),  and  The  Ballad 
of  the  Prince  (1900)  ;  and  lyrics  from  her  pen  have  appeared 
from  time  to  time  in  various  leading  periodicals.  Her  "Centen 
nial  Ode,"  written  in  commemoration  of  the  settlement  of  Cham 
paign  County,  Ohio,  and  read  at  Urbana,  July  7,  1905,  entwines 
an  enduring  Buckeye  leaf  in  her  crown  of  myrtle. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  WILD1 

Now  rise  and  go 
To  other  grazing  fields, 
Ye  buffalo, 
Lordly  and  slow: 
For  here  a  tavern-house  must  be. 
Whom  for?     The  wild-grape-twisted  tree? 
The  traveling  moon  and  the  journeymen  stars? 

The  snakes  and  the  fierce  wild  hogs? 
George  Fithian  knows,  as  he  rolls  the  logs, 

And  fastens  the  window  bars! 
'Tis  true  that  Law  and  the  conquering  mind 
Ride  first  in  the  forest,  but  close  behind 
Come  Friendship  and  Jollity  ; 
Here  let  their  lodging  be, 
Here  swing  the  sign, 


1  Extract  from  "Champaign  County  Centennial  Ode,"  read  at  Urbana,  O.,  July  7,  1905, 
and  published  in  the  Urbana  Tribune,  July  20,  1905. 

301 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

And  through  the  doorway  let  the  candles  shine, 
Warming  the  wilderness  with  hints  of  home, 
And  better  things  to  come. 

Plunging  over  root  and  brier 
Where  the  Indians  light  their  fire, 
Breaking  silence  dark  and  deep 
Where  the  ancient  forests  sleep, 
Reckless  of  the  bogs  and  snags, 
Scattering  herds  of   antlered   stags, — 
With  band-box,  whip,  and  coach-horn  blast, 
Horse  and   four  wheels   crashing  past, 

Hail  to  the  stage-coach  and  to.  him  who  drives ! 

Welcome,  the  social  years  and  gentler  lives. 

Now  do  the  fields  grow  fat,  the  barn  grow  red, 
And  covered  bridges  cross  Mad  River's  bed; 
From  clustered  orchards  springs  the  village  spire, 

And  soon,  oh  soon,  the  crowds  shall  stand, 

With  flags  and  brazen  village  band, 

Gazing  down  a  road  of  steel : 

Ah,  what  tremors  do  they  feel, 
At  the  first  low  thunder 
The  distant  corn-fields  under, — 
It  comes,  Steam-Engine,  Horse  of  man's  desire, 
Live,  with  his  passions  snorting,  belching  fire, 
Girdled  with  furious  smoke  and  trailing  steam, 
Answering  to  his  hand  with  hiss  and  scream ; 
Now  are  the  days  of  horse-back  journeys  fled, 
And  the  stage-coach  sits  a  wreck  in  the  tavern  shed. 

Now  once  more  rise  and  once  more  slowly  go 
To  other  grazing  fields,  ye  buffalo ; 
Man  neither  fears  nor  needs  you, —  has  decreed 
Here  shall  live  only  what  shall  fill  his  need. 
Farewell,  high-headed  moose  and  sullen  bear, 

302 


ALICE  ARCHER  SEW  ALL  JAMES 

All  shadow-peering  things  that  fly  the  glare 

Of  the  great  harvest-sun; 
Farewell,   ye   deer,   and   pretty   spotted    fawns 
Halting  in  troops  to  nibble  ferny  lawns 
On  your  long  pilgrimage, —  shy  graces,  ye, 
Of  virgin  soil,  lost  with  maturity 

And  soon  forever  gone. 

And  with  you,  mile  on  dusty  mile, 
The  Indians  pass  in  single  file, 
Proud  and  loth  to   recognize 
Their  day  is  gone.     With  haughty  eyes, 
And  plumage  splendid  round  their  waist, 
Their  wampum  belts  with  bead-work  chased, 
Their  leggin- fringes  tipped  with  steel 
Blurring  their  tracks  from  either  heel; 
On   their  backs   their  quivers   hung, 
And  bows  with  reindeer-sinew  strung, 
And  onyx-headed  arrows;  so 
Dressed  for  hunting  do  they  go, 
Conscious  in  every  step  they  tread, 
Of  eagle- feathers  round  each  head: 

They  took  their  squaws  and  painted  braves, 
They  left  their  legends  and  their  graves, 
The  names,  the  songs,  the  mystery, 
Of  our  first  history. 


YOUTH 1 

I  am  the  spirit  that  denies. 

Yes,  and  with  full-regarding  eyes 

Comprehending  the  facts  of  earth's  sorrow  and  shame, 

And  denying  the  truth  of  it  just  the  same; 

That  takes  man's  face  in  two  palms  soft, 

And  looks  deep  into  its  brow  and  oft, 


1  Copyright,  1899,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

303 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

And  finds  the  good  it  has  longed  to  find, 
And  denies  there  is  anything  hidden  behind. 

I  am  the  spirit  that  denies 

This  earth  to  be  no  more  Paradise. 

I  deny  that  God  walks  not  with  men. 

I  have  met  Him  at  even  and  talked  with  Him  then 

I  deny  that  of  love  there  is  ever  a  lack, 

For  I've  felt  His  sun-arm  across  my  back 

As  I  wandered  at  spring-time  into  the  land, 

And  talked  with  the  dogwood  hand  in  hand. 

I  am  the  spirit  that  denies 

Straight  into  your  face,  straight  into  your  eyes, 

Wise  Age,  that  for  all  your  wisdom  and  gain 

You  are  nobler  for  noticing  every  stain. 

I  deny  that  one  cannot  race  on  through  earth's  heat 

And  come  out  healthy  and  clean  and  sweet. 

I  deny  that  God's  path  is  so  overgrown 

That  a  child  could  not  toddle  straight  to  Him  alone. 

I  am  the  spirit  that  denies 

Any  fear  of  the  earth  or  the  seas  or  the  skies ; 

That  fronts  the  Unknown  with  forehead  calm, 

And  gathers  Life's  reins  with  my  soft,  wet  palm. 

I  learn  a  verse  from  the  Bible  by  heart, 

And  well  provided  with  love,  I  start, 

And  deny  that  Heaven  is  so  far  away 

That  I  cannot  reach  it  at  close  of  day. 


TO  A  NEW-BORN  BABY  1 

I 
Rise,  Baby,  rise, 

Life  is  incomplete. 
Heaven  needs  thine  eyes, 
Earth  thy  dancing  feet, 


1  Copyright,  1899,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

304 


ALICE  ARCHER  SEW  ALL  JAMES 

Birds  thy  rapt  attention, 

Moon  thy  mild  dismay: 
All  earth's  sweet  invention 

For  thy  use  at  play; 
Startling  red  the  berries 

For  thy  wild  delight, 
Flowers  full  of  fairies 

To  shut  them  up  at  night, 
And  perfect  every  blade  of  grass 
Where  heaven-accustomed  feet  shall  pass. 

II 

Earth  has  run  before  thee, 

Honey-hedged  her  lanes, 
Sent  up  skylarks  o'er  thee, 

Feather-wet  with  rains: 
Hung  with  dew  the  shadows, 

Broidered  all  the  rocks, 
Cowslipped  all  the  'meadows 

For  thy  nibbling  flocks; 
Voiced  her  exultation 

In  summer-throated  birds, 
Smiled  a  salutation 

Far  too  sweet  for  words, 
And  laid  before  thy  homesick  eyes 
Her  memories  of  Paradise. 

Ill 

Come,  Baby,  come! 

Come  to  wrong  and  pain, 
With  thy  quick  tears,  come, 

And  wash  earth  clean  again. 
Come  with  sweet  young  fancies 

We  have  lost  so  soon: 
Midnight  fairy  dances 

Whirled  against  the  moon, 

305 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Madrigals  unsung, 

All  spirit-footed  sighs 
The  dreaming  trees  among, 

Before  thy  dreaming  eyes ; 
Strange  presences  along  the  green, 
And  tinkling  flutes  of  gods  unseen. 

IV 

Strange,  thou  dost  not  know 

What  we  daily  pass ! 
Stars  that  come  and  go! 

Cobwebs  in  the  grass! 
Strange,  that  thou  shalt  find 

Dandelions  new ! 
And  of  playful  mind 

Man  and  nature  too! 
Strange,  to  recreate 

Eden  round  thy  knees ! 
God,  unfeared  playmate, 

Souls  in  all  the  trees! 
Strange,  that  Truth  for  us  is  hidden, 
Yet  daily  walks  with  thee  unbidden! 


V 

Virtue  and  valor's  union 

Cometh  sure  of  these: 
That  first  drunk  communion 

With  the  sinless  trees; 
Thoughts   at   morning,   thought 

'Mid  the  larks  and  dew, 
Most  divinely  fraught 

For  thy  uses  true, 
When  thy  youth's  defiance 

Calls  thee  far  away 

306 


ALICE  ARCHER  SEW  ALL  JAMES 

Into  self-reliance 

And  the  burning  day, 
And  hands  unknown,  in  service  sweet, 
Tie  winged  sandals  to  thy  feet. 

VI 

Hail,  Baby,  hail! 

Life  is  worth  the  trying! 
Worth  it  if  we  fail, 

Worth  it  even  dying! 
I  am  here;  I  know 

That  no  robin's  song 
But  is  worth  the  woe 

Of  a  whole  life  long. 
Love  is  over-plenty 

For  the  famine  stored, 
Joy  enough  for  twenty 

Round  each  head  is  poured; 
And  long  before  thy  need  begin 
Goodness  and  truth  are  garnered  in! 


SAY  NOT  FAREWELL1 

Say  not  farewell! 

The  lovely  hour  goes; 
Into  the  purple  distance  of  the  lake 

The  gleaming  rower  rows. 

Yet  see,  the  lovely  hour 

Lets  drop  its  jeweled  power; 
The  sacred  instant,  shook  with  sudden  breeze, 
Flies ;  and  from  all  the  magic  morning  trees 

The  dew  slips  silently. 

So  let  thine  own  tears  be  — 


From  the  Century  Magazine,  Sept.,  1903. 

307 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Hid  in  the  rainbow  of  a  smiling  sun; 

For  lo,  not  one 

Of  these  the  Ever-going,  take 
Of  the  sweet  Now  farewell! 

Say  not  farewell! 
The  word  that  seizes  on  the  last  of  bliss 

Holds  treachery  unseen. 
E'en  though  it  hide  its  dagger  with  a  kiss, 

It  sets  a  gulf  between. 
Into  the  coming  hour  melt  away, 
Obedient  as  the  melting  rose; 
Or,  like  the  unregretting  Day, 
Who  never  will  return, 

But  radiant  goes, 

Drop  thou  thy  treasure  in  its  golden  urn, 
And  do  not  say  farewell! 


308 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR  was  born  at  Dayton,  Ohio, 
June  27,  1872.  His  parents,  Joshua  and  Matilda 
(Murphy)  Dunbar,  were  of  pure  African  blood,  and  were 
of  lowly  origin,  having  both  been  slaves  in  youth.  His  father 
had  escaped  from  bondage  by  way  of  the  Underground  Rail 
road,  fleeing  from  Kentucky  to  Canada,  where  he  remained  until 
the  close  of  the  war,  when  he  returned  to  the  United  States 
and  settled  in  Ohio.  His  mother,  who  had  been  emancipated 
in  ante-bellum  days,  was  twice  married,  her  first  husband  being 
Wilson  Murphy,  to  whom  she  was  wedded  in  Lexington,  Ky., 
in  1859  (?),  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  and  by  whom  she  had  twp 
sons,  Robert  and  William.  Her  marriage  to  Joshua  Dunbar, 
the  father  of  the  subject  of  this  sketch,  occurred  in  Dayton,  Ohio, 
in  1871.  Paul  was  educated  in  the  public  schools  of  Dayton, 
where  he  showed  a  preference  for  grammar,  spelling,  and  other 
studies  pleasing  to  his  literary  bent.  His  first  public  appearance, 
as  a  reader  of  his  own  verse,  was  on  the  occasion  of  his  gradua 
tion  from  Steele  High  School,  in  1891,  when  he  delivered  the 
"class  poem."  After  leaving  the  high  school,  he  obtained  em 
ployment  as  elevator-boy  in  the  Callahan  Building,  on  Main 
Street;  and  while  engaged  in  this  monotonous  occupation,  as 
well  as  at  subsequent  periods  of  greater  freedom,  his  mind  was 
inspired  by  ambitious  thoughts,  and  busied  with  the  labor  of 
improvising  songs  and  sketches  for  popular  recitation.  His  first 
venture  in  print,  a  collection  of  fifty-six  pieces,  was  a  volume 
entitled  Oak  and  Ivy,  issued  in  1893,  from  the  press  of  the 
United  Brethren  Publishing  House,  Dayton,  Ohio,  and  bearing 
the  following  dedication:  "To  Her  who  has  ever  been  My 
Guide,  Teacher,  and  Inspiration,  MY  MOTHER,  this  little  vol 
ume  is  affectionately  inscribed."  He  rapidly  developed  a  talent 
for  declamation,  comic  and  pathetic,  and  appeared  frequently 

309 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

upon  the  platform,  at  different  points  in  Ohio  and  Indiana,  being 
encouraged  in  his  early  efforts  as  poet  and  reciter  by  admiring 
friends  in  Dayton  and  by  influential  members  of  the  Western 
Association  of  Writers,  including  John  Clark  Ridpath,  James 
Newton  Matthews,  William  Henry  Venable,  and  James  Whit- 
comb  Riley.  Soon  after  the  publication  of  Oak  and  Ivy,  the 
young  troubadour  of  a  neglected  race  received  the  appointment 
of  page  to  Judge  Dustin,  of  the  Dayton  Court  of  Common 
Pleas,  where  he  served  for  some  time,  discharging  his  duties 
acceptably  and  finding  leisure  to  continue  his  favorite  avocation. 
In  the  same  year,  1893,  he  obtained  from  Hon.  Frederick  Douglass 
an  appointment  as  clerk  in  the  Haytian  Building,  World's  Fair, 
Chicago,  111.,  and  later  he  secured  employment  in  the  office  of 
the  Clerk  of  Litigation,  at  Chicago.  It  was  while  he  was  serving 
in  this  latter  position,  in  1895,  that  his  second  book  of  verse, 
Majors  and  Minors,  was  published,  being  issued  in  Toledo,  Ohio. 
The  decided  poetical  merit  of  this  volume  elicited  favorable  com 
ment  from  various  reviewers,  the  most  prominent  of  these  being 
William  Dean  Howells,  whose  generously  appreciative  endorse 
ment  greatly  enhanced  Mr.  Dunbar's  reputation,  insuring  to  the 
young  negro  bard  a  sympathetic  audience  in  conservative  literary 
circles. 

In  the  summer  of  1897,  Dunbar  made  his  first  visit  to  New 
York  City,  where  he  gave  public  readings,  and  where  he  formed 
the  acquaintance  of  several  prominent  literary  men,  through 
whose  influence  the  manuscript  of  his  volume,  Lyrics  of  Lowly 
Life,  was  advantageously  placed  in  the  hands  of  a  leading  pub 
lisher.  In  January  of  the  following  year,  he  enjoyed  a  short 
tour  in  England,  where,  according  to  his  biographer,  Lida  Keck 
Wiggins,  he  gave  recitations  to  "scores  of  enthusiastic  audi 
ences,"  and  where,  in  London,  he  was  banqueted  by  the  Savage 
Club,  and  entertained  by  distinguished  patrons  at  their  homes.1 
Soon  after  his  return  to  America  he  was  appointed,  at  the 
solicitation  of  Robert  G.  Ingersoll,  to  the  office  of  assistant  in 


1  See  I«ife  and  Works  of  Paul  I<aurence  Dunbar,  by  Lida  Keck  Wiggins,  with  an  Intro 
duction  (from  "I<yrics  of  I<owly  I«ife")  by  W.  D.  Howells. 

310 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUN  BAR 

the  reading-room  of  the  Library  of  Congress.  This  position 
he  held  from  October  1,  1897,  to  December  31,  1898. 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  was  married,  March  6,  1898,  to  Miss 
Alice  Ruth  Moore,  of  New  York,  a  writer  of  some  note,  who 
had  been  educated  in  Straight  University,  New  Orleans,  a  col 
lege  endowed  for  the  instruction  of  colored  people. 

Early  in  the  year  1899  the  poet's  health  had  begun  to  fail.  Mr. 
Dunbar  rapidly  became  the  victim  of  consumption,  which  com 
pelled  him  to  abandon  the  lecture-platform  and  necessitated  his 
return  to  Dayton,  where,  after  a  lingering  illness,  he  died,  at  his 
home,  219  North  Summit  Street,  February  10,  1906.  He  was 
buried  in  Woodland  Cemetery,  at  Dayton,  Ohio.  Here,  on  June 
26,  1909,  was  formally  dedicated  to  his  memory  a  monument  con 
sisting  of  a  large  Miami  Valley  bowlder,  to  which  is  fixed  a  bronze 
tablet  on  which  are  inscribed  the  name,  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar, 
and  the  first  stanza  of  the  author's  touching  elegiac  entitled  "A 
Death  Song:" 

"Lay  me  down  beneaf  de  willers  in  de  grass, 
Whah  de  branch  '11  go  a-singin'  as  it  pass. 

An'  w'en  I's  a-layin'  low, 

I  kin  hyeah  it  as  it  go 
Singin',  'Sleep,  my  honey,  tek  yo'  res'  at  las'.'  " 

The  phenomenal  achievement  of  Ohio's  distinguished  negro 
bard  has  won  for  him  the  appreciative  applause  of  many  writers, 
but  no  critic  has  more  truly  discerned  or  more  justly  defined 
the  intrinsic  merit  of  the  poet's  work  than  has  William  Dean 
Howells,  who,  in  his  introduction  to  the  volume,  Lyrics  of  Lowly 
Life,  records  his  opinion  in  the  following  words :  "What  struck 
me  in  reading  Mr.  Dunbar's  poetry  was  what  had  already  struck 
his  friends  in  Ohio  and  Indiana,  in  Kentucky  and  Illinois. 
They  had  felt  as  I  felt,  that  however  gifted  his  race  had  proven 
itself  in  music,  in  oratory,  in  several  of  the  other  arts,  here  was 
the  first  instance  of  an  American  negro  who  had  evinced  innate 
distinction  in  literature.  In  my  criticism  of  his  book  I  had 
alleged  Dumas  in  France,  and  I  had  forgetfully  failed  to  allege 

311 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

the  far  greater  Pushkin  in  Russia ;  but  these  were  both  mulattoes, 
who  might  have  been  supposed  to  derive  their  qualities  from 
white  blood  vastly  more  artistic  than  ours,  and  who  were  the 
creatures  of  an  environment  more  favorable  to  their  literary 
development.  So  far  as  T  could  remember,  Paul  Dunbar  was 
the  only  man  of  pure  African  blood  and  of  American  civiliza 
tion  to  feel  the  negro  life  aesthetically  and  express  it  lyrically. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  this  had  come  to  its  most  modern  conscious 
ness  in  him,  and  that  his  brilliant  and  unique  achievement  was 
to  have  studied  the  American  negro  objectively,  and  to  have  rep 
resented  him  as  he  found  him  to  be,  with  humor,  with  sympathy, 
and  yet  with  what  the  reader  must  instinctively  feel  to  be  entire 
truthfulness.  I  said  that  a  race  which  had  come  to  this  effect 
in  any  member  of  it,  had  attained  civilization  in  him,  and  I 
permitted  myself  the  imaginative  prophecy  that  the  hostilities 
and  the  prejudices  which  had  so  long  restrained  his  race  were 
destined  to  vanish  in  the  arts;  that  these  were  to  be  the  final 
proofs  that  God  had  made  of  one  blood  all  nations  of  men." 


HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE 

She  told  the  story,  and  the  whole  world  wept 
At  wrongs  and  cruelties  it  had  not  known 
But  for  this  fearless  woman's  voice  alone. 
She  spoke  to  consciences  that  long  had  slept: 

Her  message,  Freedom's  clear  reveille,  swept 
From  heedless  hovel  to  complacent  throne. 
Command  and  prophecy  were  in  the  tone 
And  from  its  sheath  the  sword  of  justice  leapt. 

Around  two  peoples  swelled  a  fiery  wave, 

But  both  came  forth  transfigured  from  the  flame. 

Blest  be  the  hand  that  dared  be  strong  to  save, 
And  blest  be  she  who  in  our  weakness  came  — 
Prophet  and  priestess!    At  one  stroke  she  gave 
A  race  to  freedom  and  herself  to  fame. 


312 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUNBAR 

WELTSCHMERTZ 

You  ask  why  I  am  sad  today, 
I  have  no  cares,  no  griefs,  you  say? 
Ah,  yes,  'tis  true,  I  have  no  grief  — 
But  —  is  there  not  the   falling  leaf  ? 

The  bare  tree  there  is  mourning  left 
With  all  of  autumn's  gray  bereft ; 
It  is  not  what  has  happened  me, 
Think  of  the  bare,  dismantled  tree. 

The  birds  go  South  along  the  sky, 
I  hear  their  lingering,  long  good-bye. 
Who  goes  reluctant  from  my  breast? 
And  yet  —  the  lone  and  wind-swept  nest. 

The  mourning,  pale-flowered  hearse  goes  by, 
Why  does  a  tear  come  to  my  eye? 
Is  it  the  March  rain  blowing  wild? 
I  have  no  dead,  I  know  no  child. 

I  am  no  widow  by  the  bier 

Of  him  I  held  supremely  dear. 

I  have  not  seen  the  choicest  one 

Sink  down  as  sinks  the  westering  sun. 

Faith  unto  faith  have  I  beheld, 
For  me,  few  solemn  notes  have  swelled; 
Love  beckoned  me  out  to  the  dawn, 
And  happily  I  followed  on. 

And  yet  my  heart  goes  out  to  them 
Whose  sorrow  is  their  diadem; 
The  falling  leaf,  the  crying  bird, 
The  voice  to  be,  all  lost,  unheard  — 

313 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Not  mine,  not  mine,  and  yet  too  much 
The  thrilling  power  of  human  touch; 
While  all  the  world  looks  on  and  scorns, 
I  wear  another's  crown  of  thorns. 

Count  me  a  priest  who  understands 
The  glorious  pain  of  nail-pierced  hands; 
Count  me  a  comrade  of  the  thief 
Hot  driven  into  late  belief. 

Oh,  mother's  tear,  oh,  father's  sigh, 
Oh,  mourning  sweetheart's  last  good-bye, 
I  yet  have  known  no  mourning  save 
Beside  some  brother's  brother's  grave. 


ANGELINA 

When  de  fiddle  gits  to  singin'  out  a  ol'  Vahginny  reel, 

An'  you  'mence  to  feel  a  ticklin'  in  yo'  toe  an'  in  yo'  heel, 

Ef  you  t'ink  you  got  'uligion  an'  you  wants  to  keep  it,  too, 

You  jes'  bettah  tek  a  hint  an'  git  yo'self  clean  out  o'  view ; 

Case  de  time  is  mighty  temptin'  when  de  chune  is  in  de  swing, 

Fu'  a  darky,  saint  or  sinner  man,  to  cut  de  pigeon-wing; 

An'  you  couldn't  he'p  f'om  dancin'  ef  yo'  feet  was  boun'  wif 

twine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

Don't  you  know  Miss  Angelina?     She's  de  da'lin'  of  de  place; 
W'y,  dey  ain't  no  high-toned  lady  wif  sich  mannahs  an'  sich 

grace ; 

She  kin  move  across  de  cabin,  wif  its  planks  all  rough  an'  wo', 
Jes'  de  same's  ef  she  was  dancin'  on  ol'  mistus'  ball-room  flo'. 
Fact  is,  you  do'  see  no  cabin  —  evaht'ing  you  see  look  gran', 
An'  dat  one  ol'  squeaky  fiddle  soun'  to  you  jes'  lak  a  ban' ; 
Cotton  britches  look  lak  broadclof,  an'  a  linsey  dress  look  fine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

314 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUN  BAR 

Some  folks  say  dat  dancin's  sinful,  an'  de  blessed  Lawd,  dey  say, 
Gwine  to  purnish  us  fu'  steppin'  w'en  we  hyeah  de  music  play ; 
But  I  tell  you  I  don'  b'lieve  it,  fu'  de  Lawd  is  wise  and  good, 
An'  he  made  de  banjo's  metal  an'  he  made  de  fiddle's  wood, 
And  he  made  de  music  in  dem,  so  I  don'  quite  t'ink  he'll  keer 
Ef  our  feet  keeps  time  a  little  to  de  melodies  we  hyeah. 
W'y,  dey's  somep'n'  downright  holy  in  de  way  our  faces  shine, 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 

Angelina  steps  so  gentle,  Angelina  bows  so  low, 

An'  she  lif  huh  sku't  so  dainty  dat  huh  shoe-top  skacely  show; 

An'  dem  teef  o'  huh'n  a-shinin',  ez  she  tek  you  by  de  han' — 

Go  'way,  people,  d'  ain't  anothah  sich  a  lady  in  de  Ian' ! 

When  she's  movin'  thoo  de  figgers  er  a-dancin'  by  huhse'f, 

Folks  jes'  stan'  stock-still  a'sta'in',  an'  dey  mos'  nigh  hoi's  dey 

bref ; 
An'  de  young  mens,  dey's  a-sayin',  "Fs  gwine  mek  dat  damsel 

mine," 
When  Angelina  Johnson  comes  a-swingin'  down  de  line. 


LITTLE  BROWN  BABY 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes, 

Come  to  yo'  pappy  an'  set  on  his  knee. 
What  you  been  doin',  suh  —  makin'  san'  pies  ? 

Look  at  dat  bib  —  you's  ez  du'ty  ez  me. 
Look  at  dat  mouf  —  dat's  rnerlasses,  I  bet ; 

Come  hyeah,  Maria,  an'  wipe  off  his  han's. 
Bees  gwine  to  ketch  you  an'  eat  you  up  yit, 

Bein'  so  sticky  an'  sweet  —  goodness  lan's ! 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes, 

Who's  pappy 's  darlin'  an'  who's  pappy's  chile? 

Who  is  it  all  de  day  nevah  once  tries 
Fu'  to  be  cross,  er  once  loses  dat  smile? 


315 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Whah  did  you  git  dem  teef  ?     My,  you's  a  scamp ! 

Whah  did  dat  dimple  come  f'om  in  yo'  chin? 
Pappy  do'  know  yo' —  I  b'lieves  you's  a  tramp ; 

Mammy,  dis  hyeah's  some  ol'  straggler  got  in ! 

Let's  th'ow  him  outen  de  do'  in  de  san', 

We  do'  want  stragglers  a-layin'  'roun'  hyeah; 
Let's  gin  him  'way  to  de  big  buggah-man; 

I  know  he's  hidin'  erroun'  hyeah  right  neah. 
Buggah-man,  buggah-man,  come  in  de  do', 

Hyeah's  a  bad  boy  you  kin  have  fu'  to  eat. 
Mammy  an'  pappy  do'  want  him  no  mo', 

Swaller  him  down  f'om  his  haid  to  his  feet! 

Dah,  now,  I  t'ought  dat  you'd  hug  me  up  close. 

Go  back,  ol'  buggah,  you  shan't  have  dis  boy. 
He  ain't  no  tramp,  ner  no  straggler,  of  co'se ; 

He's  pappy's  pa'dner  an'  playmate  an'  joy. 
Come  to  yo'  pallet  now  —  go  to  yo'  res' ; 

Wisht  you  could  allus  know  ease  an'  cleah  skies; 
Wisht  you  could  stay  jes'  a  chile  on  my  breas' — 

Little  brown  baby  wif  spa'klin'  eyes! 

PARTED 

De  breeze  is  blowin'  'cross  de  bay. 

My  lady,  my  lady; 
De  ship  hit  teks  me  far  away, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 

Ole  Mas'  done  sol'  me  down  de  stream; 
Dey  tell  me  'tain't  so  bad's  hit  seem, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 

O'  co'se  I  knows  dat  you'll  be  true, 

My  lady,  my  lady; 
But  den  I  do'  know  whut  to  do, 

My  lady,  my  lady. 

316 


PAUL  LAURENCE  DUN  BAR 

I  knowed  some  day  we'd  have  to  pa't, 
But  den  hit  put'  nigh  breaks  my  hea't, 
My    lady,   my   lady. 

De  day  is  long,  de  night  is  black, 

My  lady,  my  lady; 
I  know  you'll  wait  twell  I  come  back, 

My    lady,   my   lady. 
I'll  stan'  de  ship,  I'll  stan'  de  chain, 
But  I'll  come  back,  my  darlin'  Jane, 

My   lady,    my   lady. 

Jes'  wait,  jes'  b'lieve  in  whut  I  say, 

My  lady,  my  lady; 
D'  ain't  nothin'  dat  kin  keep  me  'way, 

My   lady,   my   lady. 
A  man's  a  man,  an'  love  is  love ; 
God  knows  ouah  hea'ts,  my  little  dove; 
He'll  he'p  us  f'om  his  th'one  above, 

My   lady,   my   lady. 


HYMN 

O  KT  lamb  out  in  de  col', 

De  Mastah  call  you  to  de  fol', 

O  HT  lamb! 

He  hyeah  you  bleatin'  on  de  hill; 
Come  hyeah  an'  keep  yo'  mou'nin'  still, 

O  HT  lamb! 

De  Mastah  sen'  de  Shepud  fo'f ; 
He  wandah  souf,  he  wandah  no'f, 

O   HT  lamb! 

He  wandah  eas',  he  wandah  wes' ; 
De  win'  a-wrenchin'  at  his  breas', 

O  HT  lamb! 

317 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Oh,  tell  de  Shepud  whaih  you  hide; 
He  want  you  walkin'  by  his  side, 

O  HT  lamb! 

He  know  you  weak,  he  know  you  so'; 
But  come,  don'  stay  away  no  mo', 

O  HT  lamb! 

An'  af'ah  while  de  lamb  he  hyeah 
De  Shepud's  voice  a-callin'  cleah  — 

Sweet  HT  lamb! 

He  answah  f'om  de  brambles  thick, 
"O  Shepud,  I's  a-comin'  quick" — 
O  HT  lamb! 


318 


OHIO 

COMMEMORATION 
ODES 


OHIO  CENTENNIAL  ODE 

Read  in  the  Coliseum,  Columbus,  Ohio,  on  the  Opening  Day, 

September  4,  1888,  of  the  State  Celebration 

of  the  Centennial  Year. 

BY   COATES   KINNEY 

In  what  historic  thousand  years  of  man 

Has  there  been  builded  such  a  State  as  this? 
Yet,  since  the  clamor  of  the  axes  ran 

Along  the  great  woods,  with  the  groan  and  hiss 
And  crash  of  trees,  to  hew  thy  groundsels  here, 

Ohio,  but  a  century  has  gone, 
And  thy  republic's  building  stands  the  peer 

Of  any  that  the  sun  and  stars  shine  on. 
Not  on  a  fallen  empire's  rubbish-heap, 

Not  on  old  quicksands  wet  with  blood  of  wrong, 
Do  the  foundations  of  thy  structure  sleep, 

But  on  a  ground  of  nature,  new  and  strong. 
Men  that  had  faced  the  Old  World  seven  years 

In  battle  on  the  Old  World  turned  their  backs 
And,  quitting  Old- World  thoughts  and  hopes  and  fears, 

With  only  rifle,  powder-horn,  and  axe 
For  tools  of  civilization,  won  their  way 

Into  the  wilderness,  against  wild  man  and  beast, 
And  laid  the  wood-glooms  open  to  the  day, 

And  from  the  sway  of  savagery  released 
The  land  to  nobler  uses  of  a  higher  race; 

Where  Labor,  Knowledge,  Freedom,  Peace,  and  Law 
Have  wrought  all  miracles  of  dream  in  place 

And  time  —  ay,  more  than  ever  dream  foresaw. 

A  hundred  years  of  Labor!     Labor  free! 
Our  River  ran  between  it  and  the  Curse, 

321 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

And  freemen  proved  how  toil  can  glory  be. 
The  heroes  that  Ohio  took  to  nurse 

(As  the  she-wolf  the  founders  of  old  Rome)  — 
Their  deeds  of  fame  let  history  rehearse 
And  oratory  celebrate ;  but  see 

This  paradise  their  hands  have  made  our  home! 
Nod,  plumes  of  wheat,  wave,  banderoles  of  corn, 
Toss,  orchard-oriflammes,  swing,  wreaths  of  vine, 
Shout,  happy  farms,  with  voice  of  sheep  and  kine, 

For  the  old  victories  conquered  here  on  these 
The  fields  of  Labor  when,  ere  we  were  born, 
The  fathers  fought  the  armies  of  the  trees, 
And,  chopping  out  the  night,  chopt  in  the  morn ! 

A  hundred  years  of  Knowledge!     We  have  mixt 

More  brains  with  Labor  in  the  century 
Than  man  had  done  since  the  decree  was  fixt 

That  labor  was  his  doom  and  dignity. 
All  honor  to  those  far-foreworking  men 

Who,  as  they  stooped  their  sickles  in  to  fling, 

Or  took  the  wheat  upon  their  cradles'  swing, 
Thought  of  the  boy,  the  little  citizen 
There  gathering  sheaves,  and  planned  the  school  for  him, 

Which  should  wind  up  the  clockwork  of  his  mind 
To  cunning  moves  of  wheels  and  blades  that  skim 

Across  the  fields,  and  reap,  and  rake,  and  bind! 
They  planned  the  schools  —  the  woods  were  full  of  schools ! 

Our  learning  has  not  soared,  but  it  has  spread : 
Ohio's  intellects  are  sharpened  tools 

To  deal  with  daily  fact  and  daily  bread. 
The  starry  peaks  of  knowledge  in  thin  air 

Her  culture  has  not  climbed,  but  on  the  plain, 
In  whatsoever  is  to  do  or  dare 

With  mind  or  matter,  there  behold  her  reign. 
The  axemen  who  chopt  out  the  clearing  here 

Where  stands  the  Capital,  could  they  today 


322 


OHIO  CENTENNIAL  ODE 

Arise  and  see  our  hundred  years'  display  — 
Steam-wagons  in  their  thundering  career  — 
Wires  that  a  friend's  voice  waft  across  a  State, 

And  wires  that  wink  a  thought  across  the  sea, 
And   wires   wherein   imprisoned   lightnings   wait 

To  leap  forth  at  the  turning  of  a  key  — 
Could  they  these  shows  of  mind  in  matter  note, 

Machines  that  almost  conscious  souls  confess, 

Seeming  to  will  and  think  —  the  printing-press, 
Not  quite  intelligent  enough  to  vote  — 
Could  they  arise  these  marvels  to  behold, 

What  would  to  them  the  past  Republic  seem  — 
The  State  historified  in  volumes  old, 

Or  prophesied  in  Grecian  Plato's  dream? 

A  hundred  years  of  Freedom !    Freedom  such 

No  other  people  on  the  earth  had  known 

Till  our  America  the  world  had  shown 
What  Freedom  meant.    No  foot  of  slave  might  touch 
Our  earth,  no  master's  lash  outrage  our  heaven: 

The  Declaration  of  the  Great  July, 
Fired  by  our  Ordinance  of  Eighty-seven, 

Flamed  from  the  River  to  the  northern  sky;  — 
Ay,  that  flame  rose  against  the  arctic  stars, 

And  shone  a  new  aurore  across  the  land. 
A  Body  scored  with  stripes  of  whip  and  scars 

Of  branding-iron  seemed  to  understand  — 
Soulless  though  reckoned  by  our  Union's  pact  — 

That  Tt  was  Man,  for  whom  that  heavenly  sign 
Lit  up  the  North;  and  while  the  bloodhounds  tracked 

Him  footsore  through  Kentucky,  stars  benign 
Befriended  him  and  brought  him  to  our  shore, 

A   stranger,   frightened,  hungry,   travel- worn; 
And  we  laid  hands  on  him  and  gave  him  o'er 

Again  to  bondage,  as  in  fealty  sworn. 
So  rich  in  freedom,  we  had  none  to  give! 

While  we  might  quaff,  we  could  not  pass  the  cup : 
323 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

No  slave  should  touch  foot  on  our  soil  and  live 

Upon  it  slave  —  he  must  be  given  up ! 
When  that  first  man  was  wrested  from  our  State, 

Then  slavery  had  crossed  the  Rubicon; 
Then  Freedom  was  the  whole  Republic's  fate; 

Then  John  Brown's  soul  began  its  marching-on; 
Then  the  'Ohio  Idea'  had  to  go 

Where'er  the  banner  of  the  Union  flew, 
From  northmost  limits  in  Alaskan  snow 

To  southmost  in  the  Mexic  waters  blue. 

A  hundred  years  of  Peace !    Yes,  less  the  four 
(Our  little  Indian  squabbles  were  not  war), 
The  four  when  we,  in  battle's  shock  and  roar, 
Declared  that  Freedom  was  worth  dying  for. 
Ohio  gave  to  that  great  fight  for  Man 
Her  Grant,  her  Sherman,  and  her  Sheridan, 
And  her  victorious  hundred  thousands  more. 
Victorious,  yes,  though  legions  of  them  sleep 

In  garments  rolled  in  blood  on  f oughten  fields  — 
Though  still  the  mothers  and  the  widows  weep 

For  the  slain  heroes  borne  home  on  their  shields. 
Their  glorious  victory  this  day  behold: 

They  conquered  Peace;  and  where  their  manly  frays 
Across  the  land  of  bondage  stormed  and  rolled, 

Millions  of  grateful  freedmen  hymn  their  praise. 
Ohio  honors  them  with  happy  tears : 

The  battles  that  they  braved  for  her, 
The  banner  that  they  waved  for  her, 
The  freedom  that  they  saved  for  her, 
Shall  keep  their  laurels  green  a  thousand  years. 

A  hundred  years  of  Law!     The  people's  will, 
The  might  of  the  majority, 
The  right  of  the  minority, 
The  light  hand  with  authority 

324 


OHIO  CENTENNIAL  ODE 

We  promised,  with  the  purpose  to  fulfill. 
But  the  contagion  of  the  border-taint 

Blackened  our  statutes  with  its  shameful  stain, 
And  left  the  color  of  our  conscience  faint 

Till  freshened  by  the  battle-storm's  red  rain. 
Ay,  war  has  legislated;  it  has  cast 

The  'White  Man's  Government'  out  into  night, 
And  Labor,  Knowledge,  Freedom,  Peace,  at  last 

Stand  color-blind  in  Law's  resplendent  light. 

Now  hail,  my  State  of  States!  thy  justice  wins  — 

Thy  justice  and  thy  valor  now  are  one; 
Thou  hast  arisen,  and  thy  little  sins 

Are  spots  of  darkness  lost  upon  the  sun. 
Thy  sun  is  up  —  O,  may  it  never  set !  — 

These  hundred  years  were  but  thy  morning-red: 
It  shall  be  forenoon  for  thy  glory  yet 

When  all  who  this  day  look  on  thee  are  dead. 
O,   splendor  of  the  noon  awaiting  thee! 
O,  rights  of  man  and  hights  of  manhood  free! 
Hail  beautiful  Ohio  that  shalt  be! 

Hail!  Ship  of  State!  and  take  our  parting  cheers! 
Ah,  God!  that  we  might  gather  here  to  see 

Thy  sails  loom  in  swoln  with  a  thousand  years! 


325 


CLEVELAND  CENTENNIAL  ODE 

Read  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  July  22,  1896,  on  the  Occasion  of  the  Celebration 

of  the  One  Hundredth  Anniversary  of  the  Founding  of  the  City 

of  Cleveland  and  the  Settlement  of  the  Western  Reserve. 

BY    JOHN    JAMES    PIATT 
I 

Praise  to  the  sower  of   the   seed, 

The  planter  of  the  tree ! — 
What  though  another  for  the  harvest  gold 

The  ready  sickle  hold, 
Or  breathe  the  blossom,  watch  the  fruit  unfold? 

Enough  for  him,  indeed, 

That  he  should  plant  the  tree,  should  sow  the  seed, 
And  earn  the  reaper's  guerdon,  even  if  he 

'Should  not  the  reaper  be: 

"Let  him  who  after  a  while,  when  I  shall  pass,  may  dwell 
In  my  sweet  close,  'neath  my  dear  roof  instead, 
Enjoy  the  harvest,  pluck  the  fruit  as  well, 

Though  I  myself  be  dead, — 
For  every  other  man  is  other  me." 

II 

And  praise  be  theirs  who  plan 

And  fix  the  corner-stone 
Of  house  or  fane  devote  to  God  or  man, 

Not  for  themselves  alone. 

— Not  for  themselves  alone 
The  Pilgrim  Fathers  of  the  Western  Wood, 
Not  only  for  themselves  and  for  their  own, 
Came  hither  planting  in  heroic  mood 


CLEVELAND  CENTENNIAL  ODE 

The  seeds  of  civil-graced  society, 
Repeating  their  New  England  by  the  sea 

In  the  green  wilderness. 

From  church  and  school,  with  church  and  school  they  came 
To  kindle  here  their  consecrated  flame: 
With  the  high  passion  for  humanity, 
The  largest  light,  the  amplest  liberty, 
(No  man  a  slave,  unless  himself  enthrall,) 
The  key  of  knowledge  in  the  door  of  Truth 

For  eager-seeking  youth, 
With  priceless  opportunity  for  all, 
(The  tree  of  knowledge  no  forbidden  tree,)  — 

Free  speech  and  conscience  free. 

—  Honor  and  praise  no  less 
Be  theirs,  who  in  the  mighty  forest,  then 

The  haunt  of  savage  men, 
And   tenanted  by   ravening  beasts   of  prey 

Only  less  fierce  than  they, 
(The  fever-chill,  the  hunger-pang  they  bore, 
Dangers  of  day  and  darkness  at  their  door) 
Abode,    and   in   the   panther-startled    shade 
The  deep  foundations  of  an  empire  laid. 

The    corner-stone   they   put 
(Where  he  the  patriot  sage,1  with  foresight  keen, 
Its  fittest  site  on  some  vague  chart  had  seen) 

Of  the  fair  Place  we  know  — 
Their  capital  of  New  Connecticut. 

Ill 

In  the   green   solitude, 
A  hundred  years  ago, 
The  founder  stood. 
Hark,   the   first   axe-stroke   in   the   clearing!     Lo, 


1  "It  appears  that  Dr.  Benjamin  Franklin,  as  early  as  1754,  had  indicated  the  mouth  of 
the  Cuyahoga,  on  L,ake  Erie,  as  an  eligible  site  for  a  future  commercial  and  maritime 
City.»_j.  j.  p. 

327 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

The  log  house  with  its  civilizing  gleam 

By  yonder  Indian   stream !  — 
Such  was  the  small  beginning  far  away 

We  celebrate  to-day. 

IV 

There  were  two  prophecies.    He  the  founder,  he 
Whose  statue  stands  in  yonder  public  square, 

(He  only  came  and  went: 
The  city  itself  is  his  best  monument,) 

That  lonely  evening  gleam, 

Reflected   heavenly    fair 

In   the   still   Indian   stream, 

He  saw,  and  prophesied, 

With  home-returning  eyes: 
A  peaceful  forest-shadowed  town  should  rise, 

Here  by  this  azure  Inland  Sea, 
With  clustered  church-spires,  happy  roofs  half  seen 
Through  leafy  avenues  of  ambush  green, 
And  school-house  belfry  —  such  he  ere  while  knew, 
And  the   fond  picture  homesick  memory  drew, 
In  far  New  England  by  the  Atlantic  tide, 
It  was  not  long  before  the  prophecy 

Had  grown   reality: 
That  Forest  City  seemed  a  haven  of  rest  — 

New  Haven  of  the  West. 
Another  later  came,  in  dreamful  mood, 
Where  the  tree-shadowed  early  village  stood, 
Who  saw  the  flitting  sails,  the  horizon-bound 
Of  the  great  Inland  Sea  before 

Its  open  harbor  door, 

With  the  broad  wealth-abundant  land  around; 
(What  wealth  above  of  corn  and  fleece  and  vine!  — 
What  wealth  beneath  of  myriad-gifted  mine!) 
To  him  another  vision:  prophet-wise, 

With  prescient  eyes, 

328 


CLEVELAND  CENTENNIAL  ODE 

A  great  commercial  mart  he  saw  arise, 
With  arms  outstretching  over  land  and  sea, 
And  linking  continent  to  continent 
With  bands  of  gold  beneficent; 
The  smoke  of  steamers,  plying  ceaselessly, 
Bearing  our  harvest  stores  to  far-off  hands 

In  transatlantic  lands; 
With  interchange  of  goods  and  gifts  divine 

In  rivalry  benign, 

Lo,  peaceful  navies,  alien  with  our  own! 
The  foundry's  plume  of  fire,  a  dreadful  flower, 

He  saw,  at  midnight  hour. 

With  ears  that  heard,  as  eyes  that  saw,  the  foreknown, 
He  heard  the  hum  of  mighty  industries, — 
The  vulcanic  forge's  echoing  clang  of  steel, 

The  whirring  wheel, 
With  other  myriad  sounds  akin  to  these; 
And  up  and  down,  and  everywhere,  the  beat 

Of  busy-moving  feet, — 
In  thronged  thoroughfares  of  Trade  apart, 
The  throbbing  of  the  Titan  Labor's  heart. — 
He  saw  and  heard :  a  transient  shadow  he, 

But  lo,  the  prophecy! 

The  Genie's  dream-built  tower,  in  morning's  ray, 
In  fable-world  it  shone  —  the  City  stands  to-day! 


V 

Whoever  backward  looks  shall  see 

What  wonder-working  strange, 

Of  ever-moving  change! 

Lo,  everywhere  around  we  meet, 

In  every  highway,  every  street, 
New  daily  miracles  of  the  century! 
The  harnessed  elements,  with  that  elusive  sprite, 
The  errand-running  Slave,  with  world-compelling  might, 

329 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Obedient  to  man,  and  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Wherever  he  would  send,  wherever  wish  to  go ! 

In  every  house  at  night 

The  enchanted  lamp  alight, 

In  each  frequented  way 

Its  keen  celestial  ray, — 

New  wonders  of  a  new  world,  they  rise  from  day  to  day ; 
And  all  repeated,  all  reflected  show 

In  the  fair  Place  we  know !     .     .     . 

—  A  sigh  for  their  sad  fate, 

For  those  red  tribes,  so  late 
Tenants-at-will  of  their  vast  hunting-ground, 

That  had  nor  mete  nor  bound 

In  the  deep  wood  around. 

Him,  lord  the  forest  knew, 

On  Cuyahoga's  stream  where  glides  his  bark  canoe? 
We  have  not  banished  quite  their  names  from  stream  and 

wood, 
We  cannot  banish  quite  their  ghosts  that  will  intrude ; 

We  cannot  exorcise 

Their  still  reproachful -eyes. 

Pity  we  must  their  fate  — 

The  inexorable  doom 

That  gave  our  fathers  room ;  — 

That  they  must  fade, 

Shadow-like,  into  shade, 
So  we  might  celebrate  the  city's  founding  here : 

That  they  must  disappear, 

So  we  might  celebrate 

Their  mighty  wilderness  our  mighty  State, 
Among  the  brightest  of  her  galaxy, 
(With  New  Connecticut  her  chief est  pride,) 
Mother  of  famous  soldiers,  statesmen  tried, 
(New  Mother  of  Presidents,  her  well-beloved, 

In  camp  and  council  proved.)     .     .     . 
—  One  time  an  alien  fleet  was  hovering  near, 
(Let  us  be  strong,  and  well  protect  our  own!) 

330 


CLEVELAND  CENTENNIAL  ODE 

When  on  yon  shore  the  school-boy  at  his  play 

Stooped  down  with  hand  at  ear 

By  the  lake-side  to  hear 

The  guns  at  Put-in-Bay. 
War  summoned  then  and  since  again  her  sons. 
(City  and  State,  with  common  sympathies, 

Unite  in  claiming  these.) 

Her  Past  is  bitter-sweet. 
Heroic  grief,  heroic  gladness  meet, 
With  memories  proud  in  monumental  stone, 

In  civic  square  and  street: 
Of  him  that  hero  of  an  earlier  day; 
Of  those  her  later,  now  her  aureoled  ones, 

Her  eager  youth  who  went 
To  battle  as  to  tennis  tournament, 

Not  for  themselves  alone, 
Not  only  for  themselves  and  for  their  own, — 

For  all  men,  us  and  ours! 
Returning  but  in  sacred  memories, 
That  ever  green  are  kept  and  sweet  with  flowers ; 
Of  him  the  kindly  neighbor,  cordial  friend, 
(Now  far  uplifted  from  familiar  ways, 
Blameless  and  high  above  the  stain  of  praise,) 
Down-stricken  at  the  Helm  of  Highest  Trust. 

(She  keeps  his  honored  dust.) 
And  many  another  worthy  even  as  they, 
Banded  to  sweep  the  nightmare  dark  and  dire, 
If  with  cyclonic  broom — with  earthquake,  flood,  and  fire- 

From  our  great  land  away  I1     .     .     . 

—  Old  griefs  and  glories  blend. 


1  "Commodore  Perry,  the  Union  soldiers  from  Cleveland,  President  Garfield,  and 
the  anti-slavery  leaders  and  agitators  of  the  Western  Reserve  are  referred  to  in  the 
foregoing  passage." — J.  J.  P. 

331 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

VI 

Into  the  Future  —  who  shall  look 

Into  that  cloud-clasped  Book? 

'What  strong  miraculous  spark 

•Shall  pierce  that  deep-walled  dark? 
Whoever  forward  looks  shall  see, 
Mayhap,  a  vision,  an  enthusiast's  dream, 
Of  this  or  of  another  century, — 
The  flower  of  each  together  here  as  one 

Blossoming  in  the  sun. 
Whoever  looks  shall  see,  reflected  there, 
The  features  of  her  Past,  oh,  not  less  fair; 
The  features  of  her  Present,  even  more  bright: 

A  city  that  shall  seem 
To  bear  aloft  and  hold  a  steadfast  light : 
With  ampler  domes  of  Science,  Learning,  Art, 

In  academic  groves   apart: 
Earth-blessing  commerce  at  her  every  door, 
With  sails  that  come   and  go   forevermore: 
The  earthly  Titan's  sweltering  toil  made  light 
By  the  invisible  heaven-descended  might, 

Goodfellow  or  frolic  sprite: 
With  myriad  mechanisms  faery-nice, 
Beneficent  art  and  delicate  artifice, — 
All  human  goods  and  graces  priceless  wrought 

In  every  house  for  nought 

But  a  mere  wish  or  thought: 

The  enchanted  statue's  grace 

In  every  market-place, — 

But  Nature  breathing  ever,  everywhere, 
Her  breath  from  flower  and  leaf,  from  park  and  pasture 

fair: 
Streets  that  are  highways  to  green  fields  and  woods, 

With  charmed  solitudes, 

Whither  the  workman  pent 

Flies  from  his  toil,  content: 

332 


CLEVELAND  CENTENNIAL  ODE 

With  hanging  gardens  of  delight 

For  all  men's  sense  and  sight, 

Where  they  may  see  the  dancing  fountain's  flower, 
Faerily  silvered,  wavering  in  the  moon, 
And  hear  the  wild  bird  sing  his  vesper  hymn  in  June, 

Through  the  still  twilight  hour.     .     .     . 

—  In  that  bright  city  then, 
Himself  one  of  a  myriad  multitude, 

Shall  the  Good  Citizen, 

Who  loves  his  fellow-men, 
Who  makes  self-interest  work  for  common  good, 
Dwell,  and  make  beautiful  his  dwelling-place, 
Striving  to  keep  his  city  pure  and  clean, 
With  avenues  to  heaven  its  walls  between. 

Gentle,  but  strong  and  just, 
He  holds  his  vote  a  sacred  gift  and  trust, 
And  every  neighbor's  sacred  as  his  own, 

Not  bossed,  or  bought,  or  sold 
For  bribe  of  public  place  or  private  gold. 
He  knows  his  public  duty,  will  not  shirk 

His  burden  of  public  work: 
Public  Affairs  his  pleasure,  study,  pride 
Rightly  to  know  and  not  ignore  but  guide, 
Not  leaving  to  ignorant,  faithless  hands  to  rule 

City  and  court  and  school. 

He  gives  his  hand  and  heart 
To  make  a  sacred  shrine  the  voting-place, 

Not  a  foul  huckster's  mart, — 
Where  woman,  if  she  please,  may  use  her  right 
Inalienable  as  man's  to  speak,  how  still! 
A  still  small  voice  to  execute  her  will, 
And  go  with  son  or  sire,  without  disgrace, 
In  Sabbath  garments  pure  and  dedicate 

To  home  and  child  and  State, 
Even  as  at  church  to  share  their  sacrament, 
Guarding  her  world-old  sphere  beneficent 


333 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

And  share  of  government. 
He  builds  for  others,  not  for  himself  alone, 
Not  only  for  himself  and  for  his  own, 
And  gladdens  with  all  good  that  conies  to  all, 

Wherever  it  befall. 
So  the  House  Beautiful  the  poor  man's  home  shall  be, 

In  that  far,  better  day, 

(Is  it  so  far  away?) 

The  day  we  may  not  see, 

Save  only  in  prophecy, 
When,  standing  like  that  City  on  a  Hill, 

With  few  or  peer  or  mate, 
She  shall  be  seen  afar  and  known  of  all, 
Our  City  Beautiful  —  Forest  City  still, 

The  seaside  Capital 

Of  our  proud  Forest  State! 


334 


CINCINNATI 

A  CIVIC  ODE 

Read  in  McMicken  Hall,  University  of  Cincinnati,  on  the  Evening 
of  University  Alumni  Day,   November  22,   1907. 

BY    WILLIAM    HENRY    VENABLE 
I 

O  not  unsung,  not  unrenowned, 
Ere  brave  Saint  Clair  to  his  reward  had  gone, 
Or  yet  from  yond  the  ample  bound 
Of  green  Ohio's  hunting-ground 
Tecumseh  faced  the  Anglo-Saxon  dawn, 
My  City  Beautiful  was  throned  and  crowned: 
Then  all  Hesperia  confest 

With  jubilant  acclaim, 
Her  sovereign  and  inviolable  name, 
Queen  of  the  West! 


II 

Upon  the  proud  young  bosom  she  was  nursed, 

Of  the  Republic,  in  the  wild 
Security  of  God's  primeval  wood: 

Illustrious    Child ! 
By  Liberty  begotten,  first 
Of  all  that  august  civic  sisterhood 
Born  since  the  grand  Ordain  of  Eighty-Seven 
Promulged  its  mandatory  plevin, 

Which  fain  had  reconciled 
Human  decretals  and  the  voice  of  Heaven. 


335 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

III 

Baptismal  sponsors  gave 
Her  virtuous  patronymical  and  brave, 
From  hoary  chronicle  and  legend  caught, 
And  blazon  of  that  laureled  son  of  Mars, 

Whose  purple  heraldry  of  scars, 
(From  fields  of  valorous  duty  brought,) 

Enriched  patrician  Rome  with  dower 

Of  ancient  honorable  power. 

The  half -tradition  old 
Of  Cincinnatus  told, 

Who  cast  aside  the  victor's  brand  and  took 
In  peaceful  grasp  the  whetted  pruning-hook, 
And  drave  the  plowshare  through  the  furrowed  mold, 
Was  golden  legend  unto  Washington 
And  his  compeers  in  patriotic  arms, 

Who  flung  the  sword  and  musket  down, 

(Their  martial  fields  of  glory  won,) 
Shouldered  the  ax  and  spade, 
To  wage  a  conquering  crusade 
Against  brute  forces  and  insensate  foes: 
Besieged  the  stubborn  shade, 
Subdued   their   savage   farms, 
Builded  the  busy  town, 
And  bade  the  desert  blossom  as  the  rose. 


IV 

Upgrew  a  fair  Emporium  beside 
Ohio's  amber  flood,  as  by  the  yellow  tide 
Of  storied  Tiber,  sprung,  of  yore, 

On  lowland  and  acropolis, 
The   elder   world's   metropolis, 

Along  the  imperial  shore! 


336 


CINCINNATI:    A  CIVIC  ODE 


Yet  not  of  Latian  swarm  were  they 

Who  hived  the  early  honey  of  the  West ; 
They  boasted  Borean  sires  of  strenuous  clay  : 
Long-striding  men  of  soldierly  broad  breast, 
Of  dauntless  brain  and  all-achieving  hands, 

Fetched  out  of  British  and  Teutonic  lands, 
Schooled  for  command  by  knowing  to  obey, 
Inured  to  fight  and  disciplined  to  pray, 

Columbian  leaders  of  potential  sway, 
Survivors  of  the  European  Best ! 

VI 

With  grand  desire  and  purpose  vast, 

To  purge  from  dross  the  metal  true, 
And  pour  the  seven-times-molten  Past 
In  perfect  patterns  of  the  New, 
They  led  the  migratory  van : 
And  every  hero  carried  in  his  heart 
The  constitution  and  politic  chart, 
The  code,  the  creed,  the  high-imagined  plan 
Of  that  Ideal  State  whereunto  wend 
The  hopeful  dreams  of  universal  man, 
And  whither  all  the  ages  tend. 

VII 

Such  the  stock  adventure  brought 

Over  Alleghany  ranges, 
By  the  Revolution  taught 

War  and  Fortune's  bitter  changes: 
They  hewed  the  forest  jungle,  broke 

The  wild,  reluctant  plain; 
With  rhythmic  sinews,  stroke  on  stroke, 

They  cradled  in  the  grain; 


337 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

The  masted  barge  on  gliding  keel 
Rich  bales  of  traffic  bore ; 

The  laden  steamer's  cataract  wheel 
Be  foamed  the  River  shore; 

Anon,  as  rolls  the  thunder-peal, 
As  glares  the  lightning  flame, 

O'er  trammeled  miles  of  outspun  steel 

The  Locomotive  came !  — 
Electron's   viewless   messengers,   more   fleet 
Than  herald  Mercury  of  winged  feet, 
Far-flashing,   multiplied  the  thrilling  word, 
Freedom !   and  Freedom !  —  Freedom,  evermore ! 
Which  all  the  Appalachian  echoes  heard 
And  broad  Atlantic's  rumorous  billows  bore 
Persuasive  to  his  utmost  peopled  shore, 
Tempting  shrewd  Mammon,  and  with  louder  voice 

Bidding  courageous  Poverty  rejoice ! 
Then  Westward  ho !  the  Movers  found  their  goal, 

Ohio,   thine  auspicious   Metropole !  — 
Nor  landmark-trees  blazed  by  his  hatchet  blade, 
Nor  scanty  bounds  by  Filson's  chain  surveyed, 
Might  longer  then  suffice  as  border-line; 
Not  Eastern  Row  nor  Western,  could  confine 
Emption  of  homestead,  or  sequestered  hold 
Salubrious  Mohawk's  northward-spreading  wold : 
A  century's  growth,  down  crashed  the  'builder  Oak,' 
The  quarry  from  Silurian  slumber  woke, 
The  town,  advancing,  saw  the  farms  retreat, 
The  turnpike  rumbled,  now  a  paven  street :  — 
With  bold  and  eager  Emulation  rode 
Young  Enterprise ;  keen  Industry  and  Wealth 
Sought  new  employ  and  prosperous  abode 
With  blithe  Success  and  robust  Hope  and  Health, 
In  verdant  vale  wherethrough  Dameta  flowed, 
Or  high  upon  the  crofts  and  bowery  hills, 
Above  the  gardens  and  the  rural  mills 


338 


CINCINNATI:    A  CIVIC  ODE 

Of  Mahketewa's  brook  and  affluent  rills : 
Their  palaces  adorned  each  rampart  green, 
Their  cottages  in  every  dell  were  seen, 
O'er  which  the  well-beloved  Queen 
Holds  chartered  reign 
And  eminent  domain! 

VIII 

Today  wouldst  thou  behold 
What  ensigns  of  magnificence  and  might 
Her  spacious  realms  of  urban  grandeur  show? 
Choose  for  thy  belvedere  some  foreland  bold, 
Auburn,  or  Echo,  or  aerial  height 
Of  sun-clad  Eden's  blossomy  plateau :  — 
There  bid  thy  wildered  gaze 
Explore  the  chequered  maze, 
Unending  street,  innumerable  square, 
Park,  courtyard,  terrace,   fountain,  esplanade, 
Gay  boulevard  and  thronging  thoroughfare, 
Far  villas  peering  out  from  bosky  shade, 
Cliff-clambering  roads  and  shimmering  waterways: 
Lo,  Architecture  here  and  Sculpture  vie 
With  rival  works  of  carven  wonder  shown 
In  sumptuous  granite  and  marmorean  stone; 
Behold  stupendous  where  proud  citadels 

Of  legionary  Trade  aspire  the  sky ; 
And  where  Religion's  sanctuaries  raise 
Their  domed  and  steepled  votive  splendors  high: 
(Upon  the  hush  of  Sabbath  morning  swells 
How  sweet,  their  chime  of  tolerant  bells!) 

IX 

Seen  dimly  over  many  a  roofy  mile, 

Where  hills  obscure  environ  vales  remote, 

Rise  colonnaded  stacks  of  chimney  pile, 
Above  whose  dusky  summits  float 


339 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Pennons  of  smoke,  like  signal  flags  unfurled 
Atop  their  truce-proclaiming  towers, 
By  the  allied  triumphal  powers 
Of  Science,  Labor,  and  mechanic  Skill, 
Subduing  nature  to  man's  godlike  will : 
Forth  yonder  myriad  factories  are  whirled, 

By  steam-and-lightning's  aid, 
Invention's  yield  perpetual,  conveyed 
Beyond  strange  seas  to  buy  the  bartered  world !  - 
Hark,  the  hoarse  whistle,  and  dull,  distant  roar 
Of  rumbling  freight-trains,  ponderous  and  slow, 
Monsters  of  iron  joint,  which  come  and  go 
Obedient  to  the  watchful  semaphore 
That  curbs  their  guided  course  along  the  shore 
Edged  by  the  margin  of  the  southering  River : 
Now  golden  gleam,  now  silvern  flash  and  quiver 
The  molten  mirrors  of  its  burnished  tide 
Whereover  costly  argosies  of  Commerce  ride! 


Thrice-happy  City,  dearest  to  my  heart, 

Who,  showering  benison  upon  her  own, 

Endows  her  opulent  material  mart 

With  lavish  purchase  from  each  ransacked  zone, 

Yet  ne'er  forgot  exchange  of  rarer  kind, 

By  trade-winds  from  all  ports  of  Wisdom  blown  - 

Imperishable  merchandise  of  Mind: 
Man  may  not  live  by  bread  alone, 
But  every  word  of  God  shall  be  made  known !  — 

Thy  voyagers  of  Argonaut, 
Enriched  with  dazzling  ransom  of  their  toil 
In  ravaged  Colchis,  costlier  guerdon  brought 
As  trophy  home  than  prize  of  golden  spoil : 
Gems  from  the  trove  of  Truth,  for  ages  sought, 

Precious  beyond  appraise  in  sordid  fee ; 


340 


CINCINNATI:    A  CIVIC  ODE 

Audit  of  Culture,  treasury  of  Art: 
What  e'er  the  Daughters  of  Mnemosyne 
In  templed  grove  of  Academe  impart: 
Heroic  Song,  Philosophy  divine, 
Precept  oracular,  Narration  old, 
Or  aught  by  sage  Antiquity  extolled, 

Or  murmured  at  Apollo's  lucent  shrine. 
Here  Education  rounds  a  cosmic  plan, 
Enough  omnipotent  aye  to  create 
From  nebulous  childhood,  ordered  worlds  of  man, 

Evolving  Scholar,  Citizen,  and  State. 
Each  liberal  science,  every  craft  austere, 
All  sedulous  joys  of  book  and  pen  are  here, 
Delights  that  charm  the  reason  or  engage 

Imagination's  quickened  eye  or  ear: 
Pencil  of  limner,  sculptor's  cunning  steel, 

And  whirling  marvel  of  Palissy's  wheel ;  — 
Drama,  in  pomp  of  gorgeous  equipage, 
Ostends  upon  the  applauded  stage 

Phantasmagoria  of  the  living  Age; 
And,  by  celestial  votaries  attended, 
Impassioned  Music,  from  the  spheres  descended, 

Abiding  here  in  tutelar  control, 
Commands  orchestral  diapasons  pour 
Exalted  fugue  and  symphony  along 
Resounding  aisle  and  bannered  corridor; 
Or,  while  the  organ's  mellow  thunders  roll, 
She  bids  enraptured  voices  thrill  the  soul. 
With  heaven-born  harmony  of  choral  song! 


XI 

O  Cincinnati!  whom  the  Pioneers, 

How  many  weary  lustrums  long  ago, 
With  orisons  and  dedicated  tears, 
Blest,  kneeling,  when  the  pure  December  snow 

341 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

Melted  for  pity  into  drops  of  spring, 
My  heart  renews  their  throbbing  fervor  now, 

Their  toil,  their  love,  their  hope,  remembering, 
I  breathe  their  patriot  ardor  and  their  vow, 
Their  exultation  and  prophetic  faith  I  sing! — 
For  they  were  Freedom's  vanguard,  and  they  bore 

Her  starry  flag  and  led  her  empire  West, 
Ere  yet  the  wounds  of  sacrificial  war 

Had  healed  upon  their  Mother-Country's  breast: 
Courageous  they  and  loyal !  evermore 
Bold  for  The  People!  valorous  and  strong 
Against  embattled  Myrmidons  of  Wrong: 

Forever   honorable,   true,   and   just! 
Historial  years,  above  their  crumbling  dust, 

On  wings  of  peace  and  wings  of  war  have  flown. 
Returning  Aprils  green  the  grateful  sod 
There  where  with  hands  that  knew  the  ax  to  wield 
They  pledged  a  log-hewn  temple  unto  God 
Or  ere  they  thrice  had  husked  the  ripened  field 

Or  promised  harvest  o'er  the  tilth  had  sown : 
Seers,  Legislators,  Politicians,  these, 

From  ancestors  indomitable,  sprung! 
Who,  as  with  brawn  of  sinewy  grip  they  swung 
Their  polished  helves  and  launcht  the  steely  edge, 

Invading  so  the  monarchy  of  trees, 
Or  smote  with  ponderous  maul  the  iron  wedge, — 
Labored  meanwhile  within  the  spacious  Mind, 
Planning  and   building,    for   their   fellow-kind, 

Futurity  colossal,  on  the  vast 

Foundations  of  the  immemorial  Past! 


342 


APPENDIX 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

BRANNAN,  WILLIAM  PENN.  Author:  Vagaries  of  Vandyke  Browne, 
an  Autobiography  in  Verse.  R.  W.  Carroll  &  Co.,  Cincinnati,  1865. 
(See  biographical  sketch,  page  102.) 

BROTHERTON,  ALICE  WILLIAMS.  Mrs.  Brotherton  is  the  author 
of  three  published  volumes:  Beyond  the  Veil  (poems,  1886);  (The 
Sailing  of  King  Olaf,  and  Other  Poems  (1887)  ;  and  What  the  Wind 
Told  the  Tree- Tops  (prose  and  verse,  1888).  Selections  from  her 
poems  are  to  be  found  in  Stedman's  Library  of  American  Literature ; 
in  Stedman's  American  Anthology;  in  Piatt's  Union  of  American 
Poetry  and  Art ;  in  Crandall's  Representative  Sonnets ;  in  Poets  and 
Poetry  of  Indiana  (compiled  by  Benjamin  S.  Parker  and  Enos  B. 
Heiney.  Silver,  Burdett  &  Co.,  New  York,  1900)  ;  and  in  Days  and 
Deeds,  compiled  by  Burton  Egbert  Stevenson. 

A  list  of  Mrs.  Brotherton's  best  poems  would  include  the  following 
titles:  "The  Blazing  Heart,"  "My  Enemy,"  "The  Poison  Flask,"  "Rosen- 
lied  I,"  "Rosenlied  II,"  "The  Spinner,"  "Campion,"  "Shakespeare," 
"Ballad  of  the  Master,"  "Woman  and  Artist,"  "The  Song  of  Fleet 
ing  Love,"  "The  Legend  of  the  Snowdrop,"  "Repression,"  "Under 
the  Beeches,"  "A  Song  in  Summer,"  "The  Day  of  the  Dead,"  "An 
Old-Time  Garden,"  "How  Fear  Turneth  Aside  Favor,"  "A  Persian 
Fable." 

GARY,  ALICE,  Eighty-nine  of  Alice  Gary's  early  lyrics  appear  in  the 
volume,  Poems  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Gary,  issued  in  1850,  by  Moss  & 
Brother,  Philadelphia.  The  first  independent  publication  by  Alice 
Gary,  a  collection  of  thirty-five  of  her  short  stories  and  sketches  of 
country  life  in  Ohio,  was  issued  in  1851,  under  the  title,  "Clovernook; 
or  Recollections  of  Our  Home  in  the  West."  Then  appeared,  Hagar, 
a  Story  of  Today  (1852),  followed  by  Lyra,  and  Other  Poems  (1852). 
A  second  series  of  Clovernook  sketches  was  published  in  1853,  after 
which  were  issued:  Clovernook  Children  (1854);  Poems  (1855); 
Hollywood  (a  novel,  1855);  Married;  Not  Mated  (1856);  Pic 
tures  of  Country  Life  (1859);  Ballads,  Lyrics,  and  Hymns  (1866); 
Snowberries,  a  Book  for  Young  Folks  (1867)  ;  The  Bishop's  Son 
(1867)  ;  and  A  Lover's  Diary  (1868).  The  last  product  of  Alice 
Gary's  prolific  pen,  a  story  which  she  did  not  live  to  finish,  was  a 
reform  novel  entitled  "The  Born  Thrall,"  the  opening  chapters  of 
which  appeared  in  The  Revolution,  a  journal  conducted  by  Susan  B. 
Anthony,  and  devoted  to  the  cause  of  woman's  rights. 

To  the  student  wishing  to  familiarize  himself  with  the  best  poetical 
work  of  Alice  Gary,  the  lyrics  named  in  the  following  list  are  recom 
mended  for  critical  reading :  "Balder's  Wife,"  "The  Gray  Swan,"  "The 
Bridal  Veil,"  "Thanksgiving,"  "Now,  and  Then,"  "Idle,"  "Tricksey's 

346 


APPENDIX 

Ring,"  "Little  Cyrus,"  "An  Order  for  a  Picture,"  "Pictures  of  Mem 
ory,"  "The  Field  Sweet-Briar,"  "No  Ring,"  "Open  Secrets,"  "Life's 
Mysteries,"  "Sixteen,"  "Idle  Fears,"  "One  of  Many,"  "To  the  Spirit  of 
Song,"  "Sometimes,"  "A  Dream,"  "Be  Still,"  "One  Dust,"  "Forgive 
ness,"  "Life  of  Life,"  "Dying  Hymn,"  "Jessie  Carrol." 

CARY,  PHOEBE.  Phoebe  Gary's  writings  consist  almost  entirely  of 
verse.  Forty- five  of  the  author's  early  lyrics  appear  in  the  joint 
collection,  Poems  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Cary,  published  by  Moss  & 
Brother,  Philadelphia,  in  1850.  Two  independent  volumes  of  verse 
from  her  pen  are:  Poems  and  Parodies  (1854)  and  Poems  of  Faith, 
Hope,  and  Love  (1868).  Her  best  lyrics  are  contained  in  a  memorial 
volume  entitled  "The  Poetical  Works  of  Alice  and  Phoebe  Cary," 
edited  by  Mary  Clemmer  (Ames),  and  issued  by  Kurd  &  Houghton, 
Boston,  1874. 

List  of  select  poems :  "The  Only  Ornament,"  "True  Love,"  "The 
Harmless  Luxury,"  "A  Woman's  Answer,"  "I  Cannot  Tell,"  "A  Weary 
Heart,"  "Our  Homestead,"  "Equality,"  "Favored,"  "Song"  ("I  sec 
him  part  the  careless  throng"),  "Tried  and  True/'  "Jealousy," 
"Hymn"  ("How  dare  I  in  Thy  courts  appear"),  "Hymn"  ("Come 
down,  O  Lord,  and  with  us  live"),  "Vain  Repentance,"  "Cowper's 
Consolation,"  "A  Prayer,"  "Living  by  Faith,"  "A  Monkish  Legend." 

CURRY,  OTWAY.  No  complete  collection  of  the  poems  of  Otway 
Curry  has  ever  been  published,  though  fair  samples  of  his  work  are 
to  be  found  in  Coggeshall's  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West  (1860). 
Several  of  Curry's  productions  were  very  popular  in  their  day,  often 
"going  the  rounds"  of  the  newspaper  press,  and  not  infrequently  being 
reproduced  in  school-readers.  Among  those  of  his  lyrics  best  worthy 
of  preservation  and  remembrance  are:  "The  Lost  Pleiad,"  "Aaven," 
"The  Goings  Forth  of  God,"  "To  a  Midnight  Phantom,"  "Kingdom 
Come,"  "Chasidine,"  and  "Adjuration." 

DUMONT,  JULIA  L.  Julia  L.  Dumont  is  the  author  of  a  volume  en 
titled  "Life  Sketches  from  Common  Paths,"  issued  by  Appleton  & 
Company,  New  York,  in  1856.  Though  Mrs.  Dumont  wrote  much 
in  verse,  her  poems  were  never  collected  into  a  volume.  Of  the 
ten  lyrical  selections  which  represent  her  work  in  Coggeshall's  pioneer 
anthology,  none  is  more  deserving  of  commendation  than  "The 
Future  Life,"  an  extract  from  which  is  given  in  this  volume. 

DUNBAR,  PAUL  LAURENCE.  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar's  writings,  in 
prose  and  in  verse,  number  some  twenty  publications,  the  chief  among 
which  are:  Oak  and  Ivy  (Dayton,  1893);  Majors  and  Minors 
(Toledo,  1895)  ;  Lyrics  of  Lowly  Life  (1896)  ;  Folks  from  Dixie 

347 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

(1898)  ;    The  Uncalled    (a  novel,   1898)  ;    Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside 

(1899)  ;    Poems  of  Cabin  and  Field  (1899)  ;    The  Strength  of  Gideon 
(a  novel,  1900)  ;    The  Love  of  Landry   (a  novel,  1900)  ;    The  Sport 
of  the  Gods  (a  novel,  1901)  ;    The  Fanatics  (a  novel,  1901)  ;    Candle- 
Lightin'  Time   (1902)  ;  Lyrics  of  Love  and  Laughter   (1903)  ;  Heart 
of  Happy  Hollow   (1904)  ;    LiT  Gal   (verse,  1904)  ;    Lyrics  of  Sun 
shine  and  Shadow  (1905)  ;    and  Howdy,  Honey,  Howdy   (1905). 

A  profusely  illustrated  subscription  volume  of  four  hundred  and 
thirty  pages,  entitled  "The  Life  and  Works  of  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar," 
containing  "his  complete  poetical  works,  his  best  short  stories,  numer 
ous  anecdotes,  and  a  biography  of  the  poet,"  compiled  and  edited  by 
Lida  Keck  Wiggins,  was  published  in  1907,  under  the  imprint  of 
J.  L.  Nichols  &  Co. 

List  of  select  poems:  "Little  Brown  Baby,"  "Angelina,"  "Parted," 
"Weltschmertz,"  "Life's  Tragedy,"  "Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,"  "Hymn," 
"The  News,"  "The  End  of  the  Chapter,"  "Love  and  Grief,"  "Love's 
Chastening,"  "Mortality,"  "She  Told  Her  Beads,"  "Mare  Rubrum," 
"The  Crisis,"  "The  Sum,"  "Prometheus,"  "Love  Despoiled,"  "Pro 
test,"  "Retort,"  "Jealous,"  "Despair,"  "Crismus  on  the  Plantation." 

EMMETT,  DANIEL  DECATUR.  The  entertaining  story  of  "Uncle 
Dan  Emmett's"  long  life  is  fully  told  in  a  biography  written  and 
published  in  Columbus,  O.,  in  1904,  by  the  librarian  of  the  Ohio  State 
Library,  Hon.  C.  B.  Galbreath,  who  discusses  thoroughly  the  question 
of  the  authorship  of  "Dixie." 

GALLAGHER,  WILLIAM  DAVIS.  Three  small  volumes  of  verse,  by 
W.  D.  Gallagher,  were  issued  in  the  years  1835-6,  under  the  titles, 
"Erato  No.  I,"  "Erato  No.  II,"  "Erato  No.  III."  In  1841  Mr.  Galla 
gher  compiled  and  published  a  volume  entitled  "Selections  from  West 
ern  Poetry,"  the  first  of  our  local  anthologies.  His  latest  and  most 
important  book,  Miami  Woods,  A  Golden  Wedding,  and  Other  Poems, 
(a  volume  of  264  pages,)  was  published  by  The  Robert  Clarke  Co., 
Cincinnati,  in  1881.  The  title-poem,  "Miami  Woods,"  a  lengthy  pastoral, 
the  composition  of  which  was  begun  in  1839  and  completed  in  1856, 
is  unique  in  character  and  diversified  in  its  interest,  and  exhibits 
the  author's  mastery  of  sustained  and  musical  blank  verse.  In  addi 
tion  to  this  elaborate  work,  a  list  of  Gallagher's  best  poems  would 
include  the  lyrics  entitled :  "On  the  Banks  of  the  Tennessee,"  "Song 
of  the  Pioneers,"  "The  Mothers  of  the  West,"  "The  Cardinal  Bird," 
"The  Spotted  Fawn,"  "The  Mountain  Paths."  "August,"  "The  Brown 
Thrush,"  "Dandelions,"  "The  Happy  Valleys,"  "Happiness  —  A  Pic 
ture,"  "Truth  and  Freedom,"  "Conservatism." 

348 


APPENDIX 

GUTHRIE,  WILLIAM  NORMAN.  The  published  writings  of  W.  N. 
Guthrie  comprise:  Love  Conquereth  (1890)  ;  Modern  Poet  Prophets, 
Essays  Critical  and  Interpretative  (1897,  1899)  ;  To  Kindle  the  Yule 
Log,  a  Booklet  of  Verse  (1899)  ;  Songs  of  American  Destiny,  or 
Vision  of  New  Hellas  (1900)  ;  The  Old  Hemlock  —  Symbolic  Odes 
(1901)  ;  The  Christ  of  the  Ages  in  Words  of  Holy  Writ  (1903)  ;  The 
Dewdrops,  and  Other  Pieces  Written  for  Music  (1905)  ;  Orpheus  To 
day,  St.  Francis  of  the  Trees,  and  Other  Verse  (1907)  ;  and  The  City 
of  St.  Francis  (1907). 

List  of  select  poems :  "The  Lion  —  An  Incident  in  the  Zoological 
Gardens,"  "Revocation,"  "A  Respite,"  "An  Old  Nest,"  "Dirge,"  "In 
Vain,"  "To  a  Latterday  Prophet,"  "Sympathetic  Music,"  "Higher 
Mathematics,"  "Whence?  Whither?"  "Lullaby,"  "The  Cloud  in  the 
Valley." 

HANBY,  BENJAMIN  RUSSEL.  For  an  extended  biography  of  Ben 
jamin  Russel  Hanby  see  article  by  Hon.  C.  B.  Galbreath,  in  the  Ohio 
Archaeological  and  Historical  Quarterly,  April,  1905. 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN.  The  wide-ranging  list  of  books  by 
W.  D.  Howells,  comprises  the  following  titles :  Venetian  Life ;  Italian 
Journeys ;  Suburban  Sketches ;  No  Love  Lost ;  Their  Wedding  Jour 
ney;  A  Chance  Acquaintance;  A  Foregone  Conclusion;  Out  of  the 
Question ;  A  Counterfeit  Presentment ;  The  Lady  of  Aroostook ;  The 
Undiscovered  Country;  A  Fearful  Responsibility,  and  Other  Tales; 
Dr.  Breen's  Practice;  A  Modern  Instance;  A  Woman's  Reason; 
Three  Villages ;  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham ;  Tuscan  Cities ;  A  Little 
Girl  among  the  Old  Masters ;  The  Minister's  Charge ;  Indian  Sum 
mer  ;  Modern  Italian  Poets ;  April  Hopes ;  Annie  Kilburn ;  A  Hazard 
of  New  Fortunes ;  The  Sleeping-Car ,  and  Other  Farces ;  The  Mouse- 
Trap,  and  Other  Farces ;  The  Shadow  of  a  Dream ;  An  Imperative 
Duty ;  The  Albany  Depot ;  Criticism  and  Fiction ;  The  Quality  of 
Mercy;  The  Letter  of  Introduction;  A  Little  Swiss  Sojourn;  Christ 
mas  Every  Day ;  The  Unexpected  Guests ;  The  World  of  Chance ;  The 
Coast  of  Bohemia ;  A  Traveler  from  Altruria ;  My  Literary  Passions ; 
The  Day  of  Their  Wedding;  A  Parting  and  a  Meeting;  Impressions 
and  Experiences ;  The  Landlord  of  the  Lion's  Head ;  An  Open-Eyed 
Conspiracy ;  The  Story  of  a  Play ;  Ragged  Lady ;  Their  Silver  Wed 
ding  Journey;  Literary  Friends  and  Acquaintance;  A  Pair  of  Patient 
Lovers ;  Heroines  of  Fiction ;  The  Kentons ;  Literature  and  Life ;  The 
Flight  of  Pony  Baker;  Questionable  Shapes;  Miss  Ballard's  Inspira 
tion  ;  The  Son  of  Royal  Langbrith ;  London  Films ;  Certain  Delight 
ful  English  Towns;  Between  the  Dark  and  the  Daylight;  Choice 

349 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Autobiographies,  with  essays  (8  vols.,  edited)  ;  Library  of  Universal 
Adventure  (edited)  ;  and  Harper's  Novelettes  (edited,  with  H.  M. 
Alden)  ;  to  which  are  to  be  added  the  titles  of  five  volumes  of  verse: 
Poems  (1867)  ;  No  Love  Lost,  a  Poem  of  Travel  (1868)  ;  Poems 
(1886)  ;  Stops  of  Various  Quills  (1895)  ;  and  The  Mother  and  the 
Father  (a  poetic  drama,  1909). 

List  of  select  poems :  "Forlorn,"  "In  Earliest  Spring,"  "Dead," 
"Clement,"  "The  Captain's  Story,"  "The  Movers,"  "The  Burning 
Tree,"  "From  Generation  to  Generation,"  "The  Bewildered  Guest," 
"In  the  Dark,"  "If,"  "Solitude,"  "Respite,"  "Question,"  "The  Bur 
den,"  "Calvary,"  "Society,"  "Friends  and  Foes,"  "Judgment  Day," 
"Someone  Else,"  "Life,"  "Temperament,"  "What  Shall  It  Profit?" 

JAMES,  ALICE  ARCHER  SEW  ALL.  Author:  An  Ode  to  Girlhood, 
and  Other  Poems  (1899);  The  Ballad  of  the  Prince  (1900).  Also, 
poems  and  illustrations  in  Christmas  numbers  of  Harper's,  1893, 
1894,  1897,  and  in  the  Century,  the  Cosmopolitan,  and  other  maga 
zines.  List  of  select  poems :  "Champaign  County  Centennial  Ode," 
"Sinfonia  Eroica,"  "Youth,"  "The  Inexpressible,"  "To  a  New-Born 
Baby,"  "The  Wedding  Gown,"  "As  They  Walk  in  the  Pleasant  Coun 
try,"  "Say  Not  Farewell." 

JONES,  CHARLES  A.  A  small  volume  by  Charles  A.  Jones,  entitled 
"The  Outlaw,  and  Other  Poems,"  and  dedicated  to  Morgan  Neville, 
was  published  by  Josiah  Drake,  Cincinnati,  in  1835.  A  few  of  the 
author's  poems  have  survived,  partly  on  account  of  their  historical 
significance,  and  of  these,  "Tecumseh,"  "The  Pioneers,"  and  "To  an 
Old  Mound,"  possess  considerable  literary  merit. 

KINNEY,  COATES.  Coates  Kinney  is  the  author  of  three  published 
volumes:  Keeuka,  and  Other  Poems  (1855);  Lyrics  of  the  Ideal  and 
Real  (1887)  ;  and  Mists  of  Fire,  a  Trilogy;  and  Some  Eclogs  (1899). 
Chief  among  his  unpublished  works  are :  a  novel  entitled  "A  Drama 
of  Doubles ;"  a  philosophical  essay,  "Unthinkable  Data  of  Human 
Thought;"  and  an  elaborate  speculative  poem  entitled  "Apparitions." 
Of  the  author's  lyrical  productions,  those  named  in  the  following  list 
are  recommended  for  critical  study:  "Ships  Coming  In,"  "To  an  Old 
Appletree,"  "Our  Only  Day,"  "Mars,"  "Child  Lost,"  "Alone,"  "Ma 
donna,"  "Egypt,"  "Singing  Flame,"  "The  Shibboleth,"  "Emma  Stuart," 
"Rain  on  the  Roof,"  "Vesuvius,"  "Aspiration  and  Inspiration,"  "The 
Haunting  Voice,"  "Consummation,"  "The  Last  Meeting,"  "Sea-Sonnets 
Toward  Italy,"  "The  American  Citizen,"  "The  Land  Redeemed,"  "My 
Lord,"  "Isle  of  Willows,"  "A  Bird's  Autumn  Lyric,"  "Victrice,"  "In- 
nervale." 

350 


APPENDIX 

LITTLE,  HARVEY  D.  No  complete  collection  of  Harvey  D.  Little's 
poems  has  ever  been  published.  Four  lyrics  from  his  pen  appear 
in  Coggeshall's  The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West  (1860). 

LYTLE,  WILLIAM  HAINES.  A  collection  of  the  poems  of  William 
Haines  Lytle,  edited,  with  memoir,  by  W.  H.  Venable,  was  pub 
lished  in  1894,  by  The  Robert  Clarke  Co.,  under  the  auspices  of  Mr. 
Lytle's  sister,  Mrs.  Josephine  R.  Foster.  Of  the  many  noble  lyrics 
contained  in  this  volume,  we  would  recommend  for  special  study: 
"Popocatapetl,"  "Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  "Macdonald's  Drummer," 
"Brigand's  Song,"  "Anacreontic,"  "Jacqueline,"  "The  Volunteers," 
"In  Camp,"  "Tis  not  the  Time,"  "When  the  Long  Shadows,"  "The 
Siege  of  Chapultepec." 

McLAUGHLIN,  EDWARD  A.  Author:  The  Lovers  of  the  Deep. 
(Edward  Lucas,  Cincinnati,  1841.) 

MOORE,  THOMAS  EMMETT.  Author:  My  Lord  Farquhar,  a  Ro 
mance.  (The  Abbey  Press,  New  York,  1902).  No  collection  of  poems 
by  Thomas  Emmett  Moore  has  yet  been  published.  (See  biographical 
sketch,  page  273.) 

PIATT,  JOHN  JAMES.  The  published  works  of  John  James  Piatt 
comprise:  Poems  of  Two  Friends  (with  W.  D.  Howells,  1860); 
The  Nests  at  Washington,  and  Other  Poems  (with  Mrs.  Piatt,  1864)  ; 
Poems  in  Sunshine  and  Firelight  (1866)  ;  Western  Windows  (1869)  ; 
Landmarks,  and  Other  Poems  (1871)  ;  Poems  of  House  and  Home 
(1879)  ;  Idyls  and  Lyrics  of  the  Ohio  Valley  (1884,  1888,  1893)  ;  The 
Children  Out  of  Doors  (with  Mrs.  Piatt,  1885)  ;  At  the  Holy  Well 
(1887)  ;  A  Book  of  Gold,  and  Other  Sonnets  (1889)  ;  Little  New 
World  Idyls,  and  Other  Poems  (1893)  ;  The  Ghost's  Entry,  and 
Other  Poems  (1895)  ;  Odes  in  Ohio,  and  Other  Poems  (1897).  Two 
volumes  of  prose  from  his  pen  are:  A  Return  to  Paradise  (1870), 
and  Pencilled  Fly-Leaves  (1880).  He  has  edited:  The  Union  of 
American  Poetry  and  Art  (1880),  and  The  Hesperian  Tree,  An  An 
nual  of  the  Ohio  Valley  (2  vols.,  1900,  1903). 

List  of  select  poems:  "Cleveland  Centennial  Ode"  (1896),  "Hon 
ors  of  War,"  "The  Golden  Hand,"  "The  Morning  Street,"  "King's 
Tavern,"  "Sonnet  to  Lincoln,"  "The  Open  Slave-Pen,"  "A  Voice 
in  Ohio,"  "Use  and  Beauty,"  "The  Three  Work-Days,"  "Taking 
the  Night  Train,"  "Reading  the  Mile- Stone,"  "New  Grass,"  "The 
Pioneer's  Chimney,"  "The  Book  of  Gold,"  "Anniversary,"  "Mirage," 
"The  Child  in  the  Street,"  "At  Home,"  "Sundown,"  "Farther,"  "Home 

351 


POETS   OF   OHIO 

Longing,"  "A  Flower  in  a  Book,"  "Carpe  Diem,"  "Keeping  a  Rose's 
Company,"  "The  Guerdon,"  "Lost  Kingdom  of  Gods,"  "Torch-light 
in  Fall-time,"  "Ode"  (written  for  the  occasion  of  the  opening  of  the 
Cincinnati  Music  Hall,  in  1878). 

PIATT,  SARAH  MORGAN  BRYAN.  No  one  is  more  appreciative 
of  Mrs.  Piatt's  genius  than  her  poet-husband,  to  whom  the  reading 
world  is  indebted  for  the  publication  of  her  verse.  A  few  of  her 
poems  appeared  in  the  volume,  The  Nests  at  Washington,  and  Other 
Poems,  issued  in  Cincinnati,  in  1864.  Her  first  independent  volume, 
A  Woman's  Poems,  was  published  in  Boston,  in  1871,  without  the 
author's  name.  Then  were  issued :  A  Voyage  to  the  Fortunate 
Isles,  and  Other  Poems  (1874)  ;  That  New  World  and  Other  Poems 
(1876)  ;  Poems  in  Company  with  Children  (1877)  ;  Dramatic  Per 
sons  and  Moods  (1880)  ;  The  Children  Out  of  Doors,  and  Other 
Poems  (with  Mr;  Piatt,  in  1885)  ;  An  Irish  Garland  (1885)  ; 
Selected  Poems  (1885)  ;  In  Primrose  Time  (1886)  ;  Child's-World 
Ballads  (1887)  ;  The  Witch  in  the  Glass  (1889)  ;  An  Irish  Wild- 
Flower  (1891)  ;  An  Enchanted  Castle  (1893)  ;  Complete  Poems 
(2  vols.,  1894)  ;  and  Child's-World  Ballads  (second  series,  1896). 

List  of  select  poems :  "Transfigured,"  "Fallen  Angels,"  "A  Doubt," 
"The  House  below  the  Hill,"  "Sometime,"  "The  Thought  of  Asty- 
anax  beside  lulus,"  "My  Wedding  Ring,"  "A  Masked  Ball,"  "Leav 
ing  Love,"  "Life  and  Death,"  "A  Pique  at  Parting,"  "Her  Word  of 
Reproach,"  "A  Lesson  in  a  Picture,"  "After  the  Quarrel,"  "Caprice 
at  Home,"  "Comfort  —  by  a  Coffin,"  "Giving  up  the  World,"  "No 
Help,"  "Asking  for  Tears,"  "Sad  Wisdom — Four  Years  Old," 
"Calling  the  Dead,"  "Folded  Hands,"  "Reproof  to  a  Rose," 
"Good-by  — A  Woman's  Song,"  "The  Highest  Mountain,"  "Her  Last 
Gift,"  "A  Sister  of  Mercy,"  "Jealous  of  a  Statue,"  "At  the  Play," 
"We  Women,"  "There  was  a  Rose,"  "Love-Stories,"  "To  be  Dead," 
"In  Doubt,"  "A  Look  into  the  Grave,"  "Little  Christian's  Trouble," 
"Say  the  Sweet  Words,"  "I  Want  It  Yesterday,"  "The  End  of  the 
Rainbow,"  "Last  Words,"  "Marble  or  Dust,"  "Stone  for  a  Statue," 
"Sweet  World,  if  you  will  hear  me  now." 

PLIMPTON,  FLORUS  BEARDSLEY.  A  sumptuous  and  beautiful 
memorial  volume  of  F.  B.  Plimpton's  poems,  compiled  and  edited 
by  his  'widow,  with  an  introduction  by  Murat  Halstead,  was  pub 
lished  in  Cincinnati,  in  1886.  This  collection,  to  which  is  prefixed 
a  dedicatory  tribute  in  verse,  by  Edith  M.  Thomas,  comprises  seventy 
lyrics,  all  of  which  possess  the  vitality  and  charm  of  genuine  liter 
ature.  List  of  select  poems :  "Morning  on  Maryland  Hights," 

352 


APPENDIX 

"Summer  Days,"  "The  Reformer,"  "Pittsburg,"  "In  Remembrance," 
•'Waiting  to  Die,"  "Return,"  "Louis  Wetzel,"  "The  Oak,"  "Souve 
nirs,"  "Prayer  of  Old  Age/''  "Sonnet"  ("So  delicate  and  fair"), 
"The  Cricket,"  "The  Universal  Robber,"  "Fort  Du  Quesne,"  "A 
Poor  Mian's  Thanksgiving,"  "Love's  Heralds,"  "Make  It  Four,  Yer 
Honor,"  "The  Emigrant's  Invitation,"  "The  Morning  Prayer,"  "Her 
Record,"  "Sleigh-Ride  Song,"  "Waiting,"  "In  Memory." 

READ,  THOMAS  BUCHANAN.  A  volume  of  "Poems"  by  T.  B.  Read 
was  published  in  Boston,  in  1847.  This  was  followed  by  Lays  and 
Ballads,  which  was  issued  in  Philadelphia,  in  1848;  and  in  the  same 
year  appeared  Read's  volume,  The  Female  Poets  of  America,  also 
issued  in  Philadelphia.  Another  volume  of  "Poems"  was  published  in 
London,  in  1852;  and  a  new  edition  in  Philadelphia  in  1853.  Then 
appeared,  successively:  The  New  Pastoral  (1855);  The  House  by 
the  Sea  (1856);  Sylvia;  or,  The  Lost  Shepherd:  an  Eclogue,  and 
Other  Poems  (1857)  ;  Rural  Poems  (1857)  ;  The  Wagoner  of  the 
Alleghanies  (1862)  ;  A  Summer  Story,  Sheridan's  Ride,  and  Other 
Poems  (1865)  ;  Good  Samaritans,  a  Poem  (Cincinnati,  1867).  A 
complete  edition  of  Read's  poetical  works,  in  two  volumes,  was  issued 
in  Philadelphia,  in  1860-62;  and,  in  three  volumes,  in  1865-67. 

A  prolific  and  versatile  writer,  Thomas  Buchanan  Read  produced 
many  poems  of  exceptional  merit.  Perhaps  the  consensus  of  criti 
cism  would  pronounce  "Drifting,"  "The  Closing  Scene,"  and  "Sheri 
dan's  Ride,"  to  be,  on  the  whole,  his  best  lyrics. 

SNIDER,  DENTON  JAQUES.  The  published  prose  writings  of  Denton 
Jaques  Snider  comprise :  Commentaries  on  the  Literary  Bibles  (9 
vols.,  1877-93)  ;  A  Walk  in  Hellas  (1882)  ;  The  Freeburgers  (a  novel, 
1889)  ;  World's  Fair  Studies  (1895)  ;  Commentaries  on  Froebel's 
Play- Songs  (1895)  ;  Psychology  and  the  Psychosis  (1896)  ;  The  Will 
and  Its  World  (1899)  ;  The  Psychology  of  Froebel's  Play-Gifts 
(1900)  ;  The  Life  of  Frederick  Froebel  (1901)  ;  The  Father  of  His 
tory  (1901)  ;  Herodotus  (1901)  ;  Social  Institutions  (1901)  ;  The 
State  (1902)  ;  Ancient  European  Philosophy  (1903)  ;  Modern  Euro 
pean  Philosophy  (1904)  ;  Architecture  (1905)  ;  and  A  Tour  in 
Europe  (1907).  The  author's  poetical  works  are  comprised  in  rive 
volumes:  Delphic  Days  (1878);  Agamemnon's  Daughter  (1885); 
Prorsus  Retrorsus  (1890)  ;  Homer  in  Chios  (1891)  ;  and  Johnny 
Appleseed's  Rhymes  (1894). 

SPERRY,  WILLIAM  JAMES.     (See  biographical  sketch,  page  99.) 

353 


POETS  OF  OHIO 

SYMMES,  FRANCES  NEWTON.  The  only  collection  of  poems  from 
the  pen  of  Frances  Newton  Symmes,  thus  far  published,  is  a  bro 
chure  of  verse  entitled  "Brier  Bloom,"  issued  from  the  press  of 
Cranston  &  Curts,  Cincinnati,  in  1893.  Of  the  thirty-five  poems 
contained  in  this  collection,  those  named  in  the  following  list  are 
deserving  of  special  mention:  "Listening,"  "Repression,"  "Heart 
Stirrings,"  "Fate,"  "Moonrise,"  "March  Winds,"  "Two  Thoughts," 
"In  Winter  Times,"  "Ennui,"  "Too  Late,"  "A  Little  Lesson,"  "Roses 
at  Gethsemane,"  "In  the  Rain,"  "To  Live,"  "Wait,"  "Wishing 
Weather." 

THOMAS,  EDITH  MATILDA.  The  published  work  of  Edith  M. 
Thomas,  in  prose  and  verse,  comprises:  A  New  Year's  Masque, 
and  Other  Poems  (1885)  ;  The  Round  Year  (prose,  1836)  ;  Lyrics 
and  Sonnets  (1887)  ;  Children  of  the  Season  (prose,  1888)  ;  Babes 
of  the  Year  (prose,  1888)  ;  Babes  of  the  Nation  (prose,  1889)  ; 
Heaven  and  Earth  (prose,  1889)  ;  The  Inverted  Torch  (1890)  ;  Fair 
Shadow  Land  (1893)  ;  In  Sunshine  Land  (1894)  ;  In  the  Young 
World  (1895)  ;  A  Winter  Swallow,  and  Other  Verse  (1896)  ;  The 
Dancers  (1903) ;  Cassia,  and  Other  Verse  (1905)  ;  Children  of 
Christmas  (juvenile  verse,  1908)  ;  The  Guest  at  the  Gate  (1909). 

List  of  select  poems :  "At  Lethe's  Brink,"  "Dead  Low  Tide," 
"Thefts  of  the  Morning,"  "Syrinx,"  "Wild  Honey,"  "Vertumnus," 
"Spirit  to  Spirit,"  "A  Nocturn,"  "The  Domino/'  "Avalon  —  Fair 
Avalon,"  "The  Bronzes  of  Epirus,"  "Delay,"  "Insulation,"  "The  End 
of  the  World,"  "Migration,"  "Mother  England,"  "Old  World  Bells," 
"The  Wind  of  Spring,"  "The  Tide  of  the  Past,"  "The  Blessed 
Present,"  "When,  Muse?"  "Revival  of  Romance,"  "Reproof  from  the 
Muse,"  "The  Breath  of  Hamstead  Heath,"  "The  Grave  of  Keats," 
"Over  the  Brink,"  "Far  Otherwhere,"  numbers :  VI,  XVIII,  XXVIII, 
XXIX,  XXXIII,  LXIV,  LXIX  (from  The  Inverted  Torch),  "For 
bearance,"  "Humility,"  "A  Rainbow,"  "Insomnia,"  "A  Little  Boy's 
Vain  Regret,"  "Constancy  in  Change,"  "To  Imagination,"  "The  Old 
Soul"  (Scribner's  Mag.,  Sept.,  1907). 

THOMAS,  FREDERICK  WILLIAM.  Author:  The  Emigrant,  or  Re 
flections  While  Descending  the  Ohio  (1833)  ;  Clinton  Bradshaw  (a 
novel,  1835)  ;  East  and  West  (a  novel,  1836)  ;  Howard  Pinkney, 
(a  novel,  1840)  ;  The  Beechen  Tree,  a  Tale  in  Rhyme;  and  Other 
Poems  (1844)  ;  Sketches  of  Character  (1849)  ;  and  John  Randolph 
of  Roanoke  (1853). 

THOMAS,  LEWIS  FOULKE.  Author:  Osceola  (a  drama,  1338); 
Inda,  and  Other  Poems  (1842)  ;  and  Rhymes  of  the  Routes  (1847). 

354 


APPENDIX 

VENABLE,  WILLIAM  HENRY.  The  published  writings  of  W.  H. 
Venable,  in  prose  and  verse,  comprise :  A  School  History  of  the  United 
States  (1872)  ;  June  on  the  Miami,  and  Other  Poems  (1872)  ;  The 
School  Stage  (1873) ;  The  Amateur  Actor  (1874) ;  Dramas  and 
Dramatic  Scenes  (1874)  ;  The  Teacher's  Dream  (illustrated  by  Far- 
ny,  1881)  ;  Melodies  of  the  Heart,  Songs  of  Freedom  and  Faith,  and 
Other  Poems  (1885)  ;  Footprints  of  the  Pioneers  (1888) ;  The 
Teacher's  Dream  and  Other  Songs  of  School-Days  (1889)  ;  Begin 
nings  of  Literary  Culture  in  the  Ohio  Valley  (1891)  ;  John  Hancock, 
Educator  (1892)  ;  Let  Him  First  Be  a  Man,  and  Other  Essays 
(1894)  ;  Poems  of  William  Haines  Lytle  (edited,  with  memoir,  1894)  ; 
The  Last  Flight  (1894)  ;  Tales  from  Ohio  History  (1896)  ;  Selec 
tions  from  the  Poems  of  Wordsworth  (1898)  ;  Selections  from  the 
Poems  of  Byron  (1898) ;  Selections  from  the  Poems  of  Burns 
(1898)  ;  Santa  Claus  and  the  Black  Cat,  or  Who  is  Your  Master,  a 
Christmas  Story  (1898) ;  A  Dream  of  Empire,  or  the  House  of 
Blennerhassett  (an  historical  romance,  1901)  ;  Tom  Tad  (a  novel  of 
boy-life,  1902)  ;  Ohio  Literary  Men  and  Women  (a  centennial  sketch, 
1903);  Saga  of  the  Oak,  and  Other  Poems  (1904);  Cincinnati:  a 
Civic  Ode  (1907);  and  Floridian  Sonnets  (1909). 

List  of  select  poems:  "Saga  of  the  Oak,"  "My  Catbird,"  "We,  the 
People,"  "The  Founders  of  Ohio,"  "The  Last  Flight,"  "Immortal 
Birdsong,"  "Inviolate,"  "A  Gentle  Man,"  "Unreconciled,"  "Anni 
versary,"  "The  Teacher's  Dream,"  "The  School-Girl/'  "Johnny  Ap- 
pleseed,"  "John  Filson,"  "A  Ballad  of  Old  Kentucky,"  "De  Foe  in 
the  Pillory,"  "Wagner's  Kaiser-March,"  "National  Song,"  "Viva  la 
Guerra,"  "El  Emplazado,"  "Coffea  Arabica,"  "A  Welcome  to  Boz," 
"Hinchman's  Mill,"  "Summer  Love,"  "A  Diamond,"  "The  Tunes  Dan 
Harrison  Used  to  Play,"  "Forest  Song,"  "Wag,"  "Donatello,"  "Fairy 
land,"  "Amaurote." 

WOOLSEY,  SARAH  CHAUNCEY.  The  published  writings  of  Sarah 
Chauncey  Woolsey  ("Susan  Coolidge")  comprise:  The  New 
Year's  Bargain  (1871)  ;  What  Katy  Did  (a  series  begun  in  1872)  ; 
Mischief's  Thanksgiving,  and  Other  Stories  (1874)  ;  Nine  Little 
Goslings  (1875) ;  For  Summer  Afternoons  (1876) ;  Autobiography 
and  Correspondence  of  Mrs.  Delancey  (edited,  1879)  ;  Eyebright 
(1879)  ;  The  Diary  and  Letters  of  Frances  Burney  (edited,  1880)  ; 
Verses  (1880)  ;  A  Guernsey  Lily  (1881)  ;  Cross  Patch  (1881)  ;  My 
Household  Pets  (translated  from  Gautier,  1882)  ;  A  Round  Dozen 
(1883)  ;  A  Little  Country  Girl  (1885)  ;  One  Day  in  a  Baby's  Life 
(translated  from  Arnaud,  1886)  ;  A  Short  History  of  Philadelphia 
(1887)  ;  Ballads  of  Romance  and  History  (with  others,  1887)  ;  Clover 

355 


POETS   OF  OHIO 

(1888)  ;  Just  Sixteen  (1889)  ;  In  the  High  Valley  (1891)  ;  A  Few 
More  Verses  (1892)  ;  The  Barberry  Bush,  and  Other  Stories  about 
Girls  (1893)  ;  Not  Quite  Eighteen  (1894)  ;  Old  Convent  School  in 
Paris  (1895)  ;  and  Last  Poems  (1906).  Fairly  representative  of  Miss 
Woolsey's  poetical  work  are  the  lyrics  entitled:  "Gulf  Stream,"  "Be 
reaved,"  "Ashes,"  "Good-bye,"  "Bindweed,"  and  "Thorns." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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1993 


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